


Before Me

by rayemars



Series: The Jack Series [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Hockey, Immigration & Emigration, Politics, References to Patrick Kane, Swearing, an egregious amount of hockey lingo, referenced OCs with OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 01:46:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayemars/pseuds/rayemars
Summary: In 2009 a #1 draft pick hockey prodigy rolled into Las Vegas, Nevada and brought all his baggage re: one Jack Zimmermann with him, and then proceeded to balance a habit of partying with a laser-focused obsession with winning games.All the normal guys on the Aces had to figure out what the heck to do with him.





	Before Me

**Author's Note:**

> One day I drew up some lines for the Aces for [After Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7470546/chapters/16977051) and stuck names into positions just to try and maintain some consistency of who I was describing Kent playing with. And then I started reading more about Las Vegas and the NHL to try and figure out what the Aces would be like as a club, and how specifically being a hockey club in Vegas would influence both team play style and club culture. And then I started having to strip exposition about that stuff out of the fic; and then I decided to just write a sidefic for myself to get it out of my system. And then I decided no, I should post said sidefic and it should cover seasons 2009-10 into 2014-15 and reference the Aces' interactions around and away from Kent, as told through the view of his native Las Vegan linemate? At some point my ambition vastly exceeded both my free time and common sense.
> 
> An alternate title for this could be "How to Consistently and Repeatedly Burn Out Your Centers: A Kent Parson Primer."

Over the course of approximately twelve years, Anatoly Ivanovich Klimentov went from an undrafted eighteen-year-old to a minor leaguer in the lowest levels of professional hockey, to a flawed fourth-liner for a failing NHL expansion team, to centering a first line for a top draft pick winger who was rapidly becoming The Greatest American-Born Player Of Their Generation, caps absolutely necessary as this is Kent Parson we're talking about.

You could draw a couple different takes from that.

You could argue it was proof that hard work and dedication and respectability politics would get anybody anywhere, even if you were a first-generation American born to Soviet defectors who made their way to the U.S. via some undocumented time in Canada. That narrative always plays particularly well in professional sports, and in Las Vegas's local culture, if PR's careful about glossing over the undocumented part.

You could argue it was proof that you could put anybody on the same line as a playmaking prodigy and they couldn't fuck it up too bad. Anatoly's heard that one more than a few times, especially during his full rookie year when he initially began playing with Parser and during slumps.

It's not technically wrong. Kent Parson is an incredibly talented hockey player who pretty consistently boosts the numbers of anybody on the ice with him. He's not a hard guy to play with, unless you happen to have a problem skating out with someone whose chirps are eventually going to earn him the dubious record of being the first hockey player to get straight-up killed on the ice.

Anatoly himself has just folded it into his pre-existing belief that it takes hard work to earn things in life, and even harder work to keep them, but you can lose anything--your reputation, your woman, your place on a roster--in nothing flat. And then good luck getting it back.

But this is all starting a little too in medias res. It needs a backstory sketch.

*

In June 2004, Anatoly watched all nine rounds of the NHL draft at the house of a friend who had cable. Two hundred and ninety-one names were called; none of them were his.

By round eight, he'd pretty much stopped talking. By round nine, Robbie was trashing the NHL's scouts and telling Anatoly he'd show them; when it was over, he gave Anatoly a ride to his job at the Wynn. Robbie was a good friend, even if the two of them had drifted apart after Anatoly moved to Texas to play in the NAHL.

Going undrafted goddamn sucked, but Anatoly had steeled himself for the chance. He'd already tried out for Hockey USA's development team a couple years back, taking some crap from some of the guys while there for his name, and hadn't made the cut. He hadn't been able to make it onto a Tier I team in the USHL. He knew he'd had a late start in playing, and that he was up against guys from places that saw actual winter and who'd been in skates since they were three.

The real problem with going undrafted was that Anatoly couldn't afford to stay in the NAHL any longer. Tier II didn't cover player expenses.

Sunday evening, Anatoly returned to working a craps table and thanked Nadiya for taking over some of the hours on his weekend shifts so he could watch the draft. During his break he told his supervisor he was staying in Vegas, so he was open for more scheduling.

Early Monday morning, Anatoly officially informed the Tornado he was leaving the NAHL and requested to be released from the team. Late Monday morning, he launched a siege on the University of Nevada at Las Vegas's admissions office to find out what he needed to do to get in.

A friend who was dating a woman who knew somebody who knew a donor to UNLV's administration gave him the name of someone to contact to argue his case, starting Anatoly down a path that would have a severe impact on his life by the time of the 2012 lockout.

His application was either expedited or backdated--he didn't draw attention to the situation by asking--so that he was accepted to UNLV to start in the 2004 fall semester. Anatoly figured he might as well stretch his luck to the limits and walked into the Skatin' Rebels tryout camp.

The arrogance lost him points with the coaches and a couple teammates, but he played better than other guys and made it onto the team in the bottom six.

Over the season he kept seeing himself scratched or his ice time cut, until one of the assistant coaches learned he was always stifling yawns in practice and meetings because he was still barely hanging onto his job at the casino on top of his classes and the team.

He got an ultimatum that the Rebels couldn't afford to keep him next year if they couldn't count on him to be sufficiently rested for games. Anatoly turned in his two weeks notice to the Wynn, finally asked Nadiya out before he lost the chance forever, worked with the Rebels to readjust his dues payment schedule, and did under-the-table work for relatives of friends until he could apply for more loans the following year.

He started getting more ice time again. He returned to the team in sophomore year.

Anatoly took summer classes and did more itinerant freelance work in both Russian/English translations and street craps, taking payment in gift cards so he wouldn't have to report it on his taxes. He loaded his course schedule to try graduating early, and barely managed to keep a 2.9 GPA.

During his third year at UNLV, a scout for the Las Vegas Wranglers came to more of their games.

That year, when UNLV's season was over, Anatoly signed onto an amateur tryout with the Wranglers and got a one-day crash course in the difference between club-level college hockey and the professional game.

The summer after his junior year he loaded as many courses as the university would let him, scraped together enough hours to meet the requirements for graduating, and quietly signed a one-year standard ECHL contract with the Wranglers.

Signing with the Las Vegas Wranglers finally got him a foot in the door--buried deep in the Flames' organization in the ECHL but _in_ it--so he didn't look back.

May through July weren't great months, but Anatoly survived.

Nadimochka had moved into their apartment back in April when her old roommate left for Phoenix, and between her and his parents, all Anatoly had to do was come home and sleep and do his coursework and then leave again for classes and training camp.

Until early August, when he failed his geology class because of the lab requirement.

He managed to find an online course to meet his science credits, but it still meant Anatoly officially remained a student at UNLV for the 2007 fall semester while playing professionally for the Wranglers.

Anatoly told the Rebels coaches he wasn't coming back for senior year, returned every piece of equipment and team apparel--except his lucky hoodie, which he deliberately stained with half a pot of coffee so the equipment manager would tell him it wasn't salvageable and to just keep it--and didn't even go near the rink when he had to go on campus. It was paranoid; but better paranoid than risking fucking up his career down the line.

He busted his ass for the Wranglers during the 2007-08 season. He avoided getting booted out through waivers, stayed on the active roster through the season except for a week on IR with the flu, and even got called up for two games with Quad City when a guy there got called up to Calgary. 

The Wranglers tore through the season to win the Pacific division, becoming the National Conference top seed. They made it to the Kelly Cup finals before losing.

There were scouts at those playoffs.

That summer Anatoly dropped the money and time to get a tattoo sleeve on his left forearm, because losing sucked but making it to the finals was still honorable.

His agent called him and said that the Aces' organization had an offer for him, if he became available. Also, he was going to be forwarding Anatoly a belated birthday gift Vegas's assistant GM left at his office.

Anatoly opened the birthday skates when they arrived and then immediately called his agent. "Do people seriously still do this?"

"You'd be surprised," Ramez answered.

"Is this legal?"

"It's not _il_ legal," the man said, which was really all the distinction the Las Vegas Aces needed.

Anatoly talked with his parents and Nadimochka; and then he took the gamble and turned down the Wranglers' renewal offer on June 29th.

The longest thirty-eight hours of Anatoly's life followed, before his agent **finally** contacted him July 1st with the details of the Aces' ECHL affiliate's professional tryout offer. Anatoly accepted it and packed for Saskatchewan.

He worked hard there to put on a good show and have a good camp. After it was over, he got offered a standard contract--except it wasn't an ECHL one, or even an AHL-ECHL contract.

It was two-way, two-year NHL standard entry contract for the Las Vegas Aces.

Anatoly's agent warned him that SPCs were usually a formality and he'd probably be shipped to the minors so the organization could grow him. Then Ramez added that that didn't change the fact that it was an _NHL contract_ being offered to an undrafted twenty-three-year-old with three years of collegiate hockey and one professional ECHL season under his belt. So. Ramez strongly recommended accepting this offer.

Anatoly did.

He returned to Vegas, attended the Aces' training camp, played two preseason games, and then got assigned to the club's AHL affiliate.

The Sovereigns were in Fuckall Nowhere, Kansas; but that was still better than Fuckall Nowhere, Saskatchewan. He was in the States. Nadimochka didn't have to risk customs to visit.

And he was in the AHL. On a farm team for the hottest cellar-dwelling mess in the NHL, but still a tier up from the Wranglers. Anatoly was so far ahead of what the future had looked like when he got the rejection from USA Hockey that it was hard to imagine.

He went to Wichita, found the cheapest livable place he could because he still had student loans to pay, got settled, and set to busting his ass for the Sovereigns.

He learned how to shovel snow when winter came. He learned that other cities had last call. He re-learned that other cities had restrictions on cash back. He re-learned that the rest of the U.S. was goddamn weird, and he really missed Vegas.

He came close to cheating once while he was out there.

He'd been living completely alone for the first time in his life for months, doing nothing but training and practicing and competing and mostly socializing with the same general group of guys every day. Porn did it for a jerk-off, it wasn't the same as having a woman in bed.

Anatoly talked with Nadimochka a few times every week, but their schedules usually clashed. Plus, she had a low-grade paranoia about tapped phones and hacked accounts; and Anatoly couldn't afford his career to take a hit with a sexting scandal.

He came close enough to cheating that he lost some respect for himself. But then he left the bar he was watching the basketball game at, and went home still buzzed, and called Nadimochka way too early for her first shift schedule, and jerked off while listening to her talk drowsily about her last couple days, and told her how much he missed her.

A few weeks later she visited during the All-Star break, pulling some blackest magic to get Friday and Saturday off from the casino. She brought a borrowed Polaroid camera and three packs of film with her.

They didn't really talk about it. But Anatoly couldn't help thinking about how easy it was to lose anything: your ice time, your job, your home. Your partner.

It was a great weekend, though. They splurged on some bolts of velvet and satin and other porny fabric at a craft store, went nuts tarting up Anatoly's bed/dining/living room, laughed their heads off and were even more fuck-drunk than usual. He barely got her to the airport for her flight back Saturday night, and they were still kissing until she was far enough up the security line that they couldn't hold hands anymore, despite the increasingly unsubtle exasperation from the people around them at the PDA. Anatoly went home and slept through half of Sunday.

Jeff came over Monday morning, thumping on his door until Anatoly finally opened up.

"Oh, you are alive," Jeff said, while Anatoly was still trying to figure out why he was here. Anatoly was supposed to drive carpool today. Right?

"Wha?"

"Inch of snow fell. Your phone's off," Jeff grinned, shouldering his way in. "Someone had to see your desert ass didn't die."

"Fuck you," Anatoly grumbled, and Jeff told him to get his desert ass dressed for practice.

He heard Jeff going through the kitchen and stealing the last of his coffee while he was in the bathroom pissing, and heard him out in the hall again on the way to the main room; but he didn't put two and two together until he heard Jeff choke.

"Aw shit--get out!" Anatoly yelled through the door, desperately shaking off. "Go--fuckin' start the car!"

" _Holy **shit**!_ " Jeff crowed.

"Fuck you!"

"Spent weekend making your flat bordello?" Jeff managed, before laughing himself sick.

By the time Anatoly shoved his way out of the bathroom, Jeff was slumped against the doorframe, still laughing, with his phone out to take a photo of the room. Anatoly tackled him to the floor.

They ended up almost late for practice by the time Anatoly finished making Jeff help him clean up the spilled coffee. Jeff chirped him so much and for so long, in English and Italian, during the car ride and while they were on the ice, that after practice Anatoly finally headlocked him and threw him into the showers still wearing his pads, which got Anatoly a lecture from the equipment manager and got him and Jeff both fined for 'being jackasses' which was not a legitimate fine on the list goddammit.

The Sovereigns had a decent run that season. They didn't make the playoffs for the Calder Cup, but by the end of the season Anatoly had earned a place in the top six. He got called up to the Aces three times, the third for almost a month over March and April when injuries decimated Vegas' regular roster.

Jeff got called up then, too; and he and Anatoly got attention for their play on the fourth line.

Mostly Jeff. He adapted to the Aces' rough play style way faster than Anatoly, diving into the role of agitator immediately--he made their opponents' lives hell, clearing space on the ice for their line.

Anatoly got a goal and four assists over the course of his three call ups. Jeff only had one assist, but by his third home game there were already a couple signs for him at warmups, and he got collectively re-nicknamed by the Aces' and Sovereigns' core fans after the Aces' captain called him "a scrappy dude" one postgame.

When one of the Aces came back from IR, the club returned Anatoly to Wichita and kept Jeff in Vegas.

While he was packing in the hotel room, Anatoly told Jeff not to get his face broken and good luck, and meant it. Jeff worked just as hard as he did, and he went in ready to do the shit Anatoly wasn't--he wanted to make it into the NHL with points, not his fists.

But the Aces had to play entertaining hockey to compete with the rest of the entertainment options in Vegas. And Jeff was a lot more entertaining on the ice than Anatoly.

Which meant Anatoly had to improve further, so he actually _could_ earn a place in the Aces based on points.

Back in Kansas, Anatoly focused on getting better at playing down low, honing his offense. He finished the season tied at second on the Sovereigns for goals. He scrimped on everything but food, equipment, and the money he sent back to his parents, and managed to hit the one-third mark on paying his loans by May.

He went home to Vegas for the offseason, spent about four days in bed with Nadimochka whenever they had the apartment to themselves, and turned his tattoo sleeve into a full-arm one because losing sucked but having an NHL contract was still goddamned _amazing_.

Anatoly devoted the summer to conditioning and practice, determined to crack the Aces' roster that year.  
  
  
In late June, the Las Vegas Aces--below even the Isles as the worst team in the league--used their first pick in the draft to select Kent Parson.

*

Parson posts high numbers in the prospect tournament, and the Aces come out ranking third place overall: a new club record.

Nobody even pretends Parson won't be on the Aces' roster come 2009-10. When a club's giving away tickets most games just to get attendance up, it doesn't drop a generational talent prospect onto its farm team. It throws him straight into the show and hopes he lives up to his hype.

Anatoly notes that there's going to be one less place open on the roster, and doubles down on his conditioning.  
  
  
He doesn't know what to expect from Parson going into training camp. The more the local media and the club and the league talk up the kid over July and August and September, the more Anatoly keeps wondering why the Aces didn't select John Tavares instead.

He's a prodigy-level prospect, too. He didn't have as many points as Parson, but he had more goals. And more size and strength. Parson's fast, but you can't just outskate everyone in a professional level of competition. Anybody who's actually worked their way through the ranks knows that.

And Tavares would've been a better long-term investment than Parson, a guy with a rep for partying whose main scoring partner turned out to be a drug addict.

Anatoly's lived almost his whole life in Las Vegas. Addicts can't make it in this city. Parson was a bad choice.

But it was the front office's choice to make, not his. Anatoly knows people who know people; he's still doing under-the-table work in information, since he's got loans to pay, and parents and a woman to look after, and he knows he's trying to build a career in an incredibly ageist and injury-riddled sport. But he doesn't have any actual power.

The organization picked Parson, and the kid'll just have to live up to himself or else collapse like Zimmermann did.  
  
  
Anatoly picks up Jeff at the airport when he arrives from Italy for camp. Jeff brings souvenirs for his parents from Trieste, and crashes in his family's apartment on a mattress Anatoly's mom offered to store for a friend so he could have a real bed--even though Anatoly cheerfully points out multiple times that Jeff's short enough to sleep on the couch. Nadimochka chirps Jeff relentlessly for the little Slovenian-influenced Russian he knows, reaffirming that Anatoly's made the right choice in her.

Anatoly doesn't know what to expect going into the Aces' 2009 training camp. But it isn't him and Jeff arriving early the first day--because coaches and GMs notice that--and seeing Parson already in the weight room talking workouts with the strength coach.

Even when Anatoly and Jeff start coming in earlier, every morning of camp Parson's already in the clubhouse.

Anatoly eventually nixes Jeff's plan to show up at six a.m. one morning, because 1) he's not a goddamn lunatic _unlike some people Goffredo_ and 2) you don't know shit about how traffic works in this city six a.m. is right at shift change and also 3) _get outta our bedroom_.

"Bad at hospitality, Vich!" Jeff says as he finally leaves, pointing at Anatoly over his shoulder. "I'm your guest! You're shit at this, American."

"Fuck oooooooooooff," Anatoly groans, dropping back to the mattress while Nadimochka shakes with muffled laughter under the blankets.

"Bad taste in friends," she chuckles a couple moments later, tugging the cover back and propping her head up on an elbow.

"I knooooooooooow," he answers, and she breaks into giggles again.

"I can fuckin' hear you!" Jeff calls from the living room.

"Oh my God, shut up and lemme sleep or I will _kill you_ , I swear!"

"That's one way to open up roster spot," Jeff remarks; and Anatoly says "You did **not just** \--" and throws himself out of bed and goes after him.

Anatoly's dad finally comes out of his parents' bedroom while Anatoly's got Jeff wrestled down to the carpet, and tells the two of them to please behave like men and shut up already.  
  
  
Still, not being a lunatic doesn't mean he isn't curious too. So when Jeff corrals the veteran defenseman Parson's boarding with at the coffeemaker the last morning of camp, Anatoly joins him. Also, coffee.

"What bet is it?" Jeff demands; and Walczak snorts into his mug.

"This's all him," he replies. "I know the value of sleep."

"Seriously?" Anatoly asks.

"Yup," Walczak drawls. "I finally told him if he was gonna keep gettin' my household up hours ahead'a schedule, start making breakfast or get his own car. Came down the next morning and he was scrambling eggs." He shakes his head in bemusement. "Like, alright kid. You crazy mofo."

"Seriously?" Anatoly repeats in disbelief, before he can stop himself.

Walczak gives him a brief look, and then shrugs and takes another drink of coffee.

"Hasn't been long, but I don't think he's a bad kid," the man says. "I think he wants to get away from his Juniors rep."

Anatoly blows on his coffee.

"Huh," Jeff says, leaning against the counter. "Okay."  
  
  
Anatoly and Jeff both make it through training camp and preseason and earn a place on the roster. It's still on the fourth line.

Jeff thrives there.

Anatoly comes home from games wanting to throw up from stress and pain.

He makes it through the first few months only because of Nadimochka and Jeff. Nadimochka retired from ballet at nineteen and considered herself victorious for surviving an art that actively sought to destroy her, which is a lot like how Anatoly feels about hockey some days; she understands the exhaustion.

She does what she can for him. Nadimochka handled the research and the move when they left Anatoly's parents' apartment for their condo, and she helps him out with bandages and dressings and extra massages. She also locks up their painkillers and alcohol so she can ration them out.

Their first serious fight was about that, after a really bad game where even the painkillers weren't helping him sleep, but pretty soon Anatoly realized what he sounded like and quit.

After that, he just takes however many pills she gives him and drinks whatever amount of liquor she pours for him and if she says that's it for the evening, he knows to trust her to be looking out for his best interests, even if he's still hurting or strung out and pissed at himself over a bad play.

It gets better the more games he plays and the more minutes he shares with Jeff. Jeff's the wrecking ball of their line, getting Anatoly space to go for the small ice and shoot; they cycle through right wingers, but post some decent points together.

Anatoly pushes himself hard in the weight room every day, even the ones they technically have off. But he can't escape the fact that he's shit at fighting, he doesn't get his focus back fast enough after he hits guys into the boards, and his numbers would be poorer if it weren't for Jeff going after the guys who've pegged Anatoly as the fourth line's weak link.

The head coach starts scratching him from more games. In late December, the Aces' GM sends him back to Kansas for a long conditioning stint.

Anatoly lives out of a motel and wonders if this is it.

If he's going to end up as just another career minor leaguer. Just another guy who's good enough to be a top four in the AHL--but not good enough to go any farther. He's given everything he has this season; he's making the most of his chance to prove he belongs in the NHL. And he's failing.

He returns to Vegas in January. Later, when the midseason break's coming up, Parson randomly tells Anatoly he got tickets to a Lakers game and asks if he wants to catch it with him in exchange for a ride to L.A.

Anatoly says yes, since it can't hurt.

Walczak was right about the kid: for all that Parson keeps getting pictures of himself taken while he's out clubbing, he's still showing up early everyday to the clubhouse, working steadily in the weight room and staying focused in practices.

It's forced Anatoly to acknowledge the jealousy underlying most of his attitude about Parson.

Which obligates him to deal with it. Parson's looking set to be a franchise face for the Aces for a long time; and while Anatoly wants to play in the NHL, there's no denying that staying with the Aces is his dream.

He knows they're not the best team in the league. Or the Western conference. Or the Pacific division, or even just better than Phoenix most of the time--but they're _Vegas's_ team, goddammit, and that means something.

So Anatoly says yes, because Parson's going to be a franchise face, and if Anatoly manages to stay here they'll have to work together. So they might as well get along.

It's not like Parson's hard to like, if Anatoly puts aside his personal bias. The kid isn't a diva or a showoff or a brat; he's surprisingly chill except for after losses. The more he and Anatoly see each other in the workout room, the more they've started chatting casually or discussing previous nights' games.

That's not enough to explain why Parson picks him for the game, but maybe Anatoly was the most convenient teammate--he lives in Vegas and wouldn't be going anywhere else during the break, and Parson still hasn't bought a car yet. Maybe Walczak couldn't go for some reason, or booted Parson out of the house to get some alone time with his wife.

Or maybe Parson just threw a dart at the roster. Who knows why Parson does a lot of things; he isn't the most talkative guy about what he's thinking.

Or about anything. Anatoly's been around Parson long enough to notice that the kid dissembles constantly in conversations, downplaying any personal information and getting people to talk about themselves instead. He does it like it's first nature; it's starting to go from driving Jeff nuts so he grouses to Anatoly about it to making Jeff distrust Parson's motives.

Anatoly doesn't have much to say about himself, and he's pretty sure they can't talk about hockey for nine-plus hours, so he makes sure he's got enough CDs stocked in the car for the trip.

He doesn't expect a lot out of the evening--several hours of a familiar drive, a few hours to relax and watch the Lakers--but then they get to the game.

Parson failed to mention his tickets were for court-side seats, though Anatoly really shouldn't've been surprised. That's the kind of thing that happens for guys like Parson, players who sign contracts with an annual average salary that's higher than Anatoly's entire contract amount. Athletes who people, and companies, want to influence.

But he never gets around to finding out who Parson got the tickets from, because they've barely parked by the Staples Center before Parson starts casually dragging Anatoly on just about every single goddamned thing he says.

It's subtle enough at first that Anatoly doesn't catch it. And then when he does, he figures he's reading too much into it.

Which Parson apparently takes as a challenge, because by the end of first quarter Anatoly can't seem to get more than a sentence out without Parson blatantly chirping him in response.

"What the hell is this?" Anatoly finally demands at halftime. "Who the hell **are** you? Where's this goddamn lip to the rest of the boys?!"

"'Lip,'" Parson repeats dryly; and Anatoly makes an exasperated hand gesture and says "Fuck _you_."

Parson just shakes his head, giving Anatoly a half-smiling pitying look. "D- response, man. I know you can do better."

Anatoly slumps deeper in his seat and mutters, "Oh my God, seriously, _what is this?_ "  
  
  
In hindsight, that should've been the tip-off right there.

But in Anatoly's defense, it's pretty hard to see a man like Kent Parson coming.  
  
  
Over the next few weeks, Parson starts holding him back more after practice, telling Anatoly he wants help working on rebounds and deflections. Anatoly agrees because, again, it can't hurt.

Listening to Parson talk through what he's trying to do starts sharpening Anatoly's awareness of his own play. He begins making little changes in practice and games; he gets a couple more goals and and starts earning some more ice time.

Meanwhile, Parson's still sporadically getting pics posted online of himself out clubbing around the Strip.

Anatoly finally goes to talk to Walczak about it, because it's driving him crazy how the kid can work so hard and be so talented and still be so stupid at the same goddamn time. Anatoly thought the whole point of making rookies board with vets was to keep them from making these kinds of teenage mistakes.

"Yeah, I asked him about it," Walczak replies. "Like 'Kid, the GM's grilling me on your curfew. If you're turning off the alarm and sneaking out, we need to fuckin' talk.'"

Anatoly raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Walczak shrugs. "He said he just goes out dancin' and shit for a while and then heads home. Which fits. He's never broke curfew unless traffic's hell, and he's called to lemme know when that happens."

"Huh," Anatoly says.

"Yep," Walczak replies, bracing himself on his stick. "I think he's a good kid, Vichy. I'm not worried about him."

Anatoly pulls one of the water bottles from the bench. "Okay."

He takes a slug from it and then adds, "It's just weird. You know? If he wants to leave his Juniors rep behind, this ain't helping."

Walczak leans a little more on his stick. "I got some ideas why he's doing it," he says, quieter.

Anatoly raises an eyebrow again as he drops the bottle back behind the bench.

"Ask me when I know him better," Walczak replies. "I don't wanna fuck up a rookie's career with rumors."

"--Okay," Anatoly replies. "I'm not trying to do that, Waller."

"I know what you do, Ivanovich," Walczak says evenly.

 _Ah shit_ , Anatoly thinks, going still.

Playing dumb would insult them both, and he needs to find out from Walczak how many other people know if he's got any chance of salvaging this before he's blacklisted from the league. Anatoly starts to say, "It's not like that," but Walczak just keeps looking at him silently.

"I know what this club is," Walczak says, after Anatoly's fallen quiet. "We all gotta make it here somehow. Just keep it to yourself, huh?"

". . . Understood," Anatoly replies.  
  
  
He backs off of Parson after that, unless the kid initiates lingering on the ice after practice or otherwise hanging out.

Anatoly knows people who know people who trade in information, and he's been explicitly warned not to fuck with Walczak. Karel Walczak knows people, full stop.

There's more than one reason why the Aces have their prime hope for vitalizing their club staying under that man's roof.  
  
  
(The topic won't come up again, until Anatoly will finally approach Walczak at his retirement party and ask if he thought Parser's high rate of partying in his first couple years with the Aces was on purpose, to subtly influence what people--what other teams and their scouts and their coaches who were creating strategies against the Aces--thought about him.

Anatoly almost won't go through with it. But by that point he'll need confirmation that he's not paranoid or crazy and Parser really is that smart and manipulative.

"Yeah," Walczak will answer, because the two of them will be alone on one of the balconies of the Mansion at MGM Grand.

[The Mansion. At MGM Grand. The _entire fucking mansion at MGM Grand that Parser rented_. Anatoly won't even know where to begin comprehending how much that cost. He'll be a quarter sure it's more than his parents' house and his and Nadimochka's condo combined.

Anatoly would've ripped the absolute living hell out of Parser for it--except he'll have known the man long enough to know Parser's actually pretty smart with his salary, outside of occasional splurges.

And renting all twenty-nine villas will mean there's rooms for all the guys and their families who've come to see Walczak. Even the ones who played with him in the minors and are still there, who probably never could've afforded to travel to Vegas if they'd had to put up more than the cost of the airfare.

Plus, most of the people who'll be there for the evening and staying the night will figure the Aces are footing the bulk of this. Parser won't be talking about it.

Anatoly will only be sure it's actually Parser instead because he'll recall Parser previously asking him how to get in touch with the person at MGM who determines qualified guests for the Mansion.

Which Anatoly will then combine with what he still knows about the Las Vegas Hockey Club's financials.

Once Anatoly'll add the fact that the silent investors have always been careful to keep several layers of separation between themselves and Parser, it won't be hard to put two and two together.

He'll test the theory by making a comment to Parser while they're at the bar--only to have Parser dissemble like usual, until they've pivoted from Anatoly's unspoken question to swapping stories about Walczak with the guy who's standing nearby.

Anatoly would've ripped the hell out of Parser for ponying up that much dough, except that all this will be a pretty clear sign how much respect Parser has for Walczak.

Anatoly will've known Parser long enough to be aware that the man constantly hedges when he talks: nothing's ever 'good,' just 'pretty good;' a career-best season's just 'I do alright.' He'll have known Parser more than long enough to be sure it's not humility, it's self-protective evasion.

So to hear Parser flat-out tell someone it was an honor skating with Waller will be a pretty blatant sign how much respect Parser has for the man.

Parser will still tend to show genuine emotion so rarely around any of the boys that Anatoly won't be able to bring himself to give him shit for that.

Still goddamn ridiculous, though. _The **entire** mansion_.]

"Yeah," Walczak will repeat with a nod, taking a sip of scotch. "I figured it was on purpose.

"A random hockey player out in Vegas _somehow_ keeps running into people who know the sport, and recognize him, and care enough to want pictures?" Walczak will add. "Ain't like he's Drake or Brady."

"Shiiiiiiiit," Anatoly will mutter, slumping against the wall.

The area has a core of hockey fans and season ticket holders--but it was much smaller in 2009-10, before the team started making playoffs and got a Cup win.

Anatoly will have started being one of the franchise faces by this point, one of the guys on some of the Aces' promo materials and their banners on the streetlights around the arena--but he gets recognized in local casinos and the airport, not the teeming, transitory, tourist-heavy outlier of the Strip.

Parser will be **the** franchise face and hands down the most famous person in the Aces' organization--but he'll hardly be the most recognizable person on the street. You see one blond guy in jeans and a t-shirt in Vegas, you've seen a thousand. That watch of his will still cause more second looks than the rest of him.

So it really was weird that Parser had _that_ many people recognizing him his rookie year.

And Anatoly's not paranoid.

"Damn," he'll add, running his fingers through his hair.

Walczak will shrug. "I thought he just had shit luck at first," he'll say. "'Til I realized in all those photos, he's only got water."

Anatoly will look over.

Walczak will rest an arm on the balcony railing. "Go through 'em," he'll say. "You find him holdin' anything but a water bottle anywhere, I owe you a hundred."

"Oh my god," Anatoly will say, dropping his head back to the wall and rubbing his fingers against his eyes. "I believe you."

Walczak will take another sip of scotch.

"He's a smart fuckin' kid," he'll say, quieter. "Somebody made him think that's a bad thing."

Anatoly will drop his hand and look over again. Walczak'll give him another half-shrug.

"Ain't sayin' it's not worrying sometimes," the man will tell him. "Just sayin', at least he's on our side."

"...Yeah," Anatoly will reply. "Yeah, true.")  
  
  
In early February they lose a couple boys to IR after a really rough game against the Kings. Halfway through the following practice, the head coach assigns a call-up to play center to Jeff and shifts Anatoly onto Parson's line.

Coach Lewis puts them together again during the next day's optional skate. That night when Phoenix ends up scoring on the Aces first, Lewis taps Anatoly out of rotation and tells him to get out there with Parse and Zazzy.

Playing in the NHL is playing in the major leagues no matter what; but going abruptly from fourth line to second means suddenly Anatoly goes from being on the ice for overlaps with top-level players to being in face-offs against them. Which is. New.

Anatoly loses his first two face-offs, takes an ugly hit from Bissonnette when he doesn't clear the puck from the corner fast enough, adjusts to the way Parson sounds when he's yelling at the line in a game instead of in practice, wins his next face-off, and ends up getting in a fight despite everything because the Coyotes' checking line is starting to get desperate about stopping them. The Aces win by one; the coach keeps him on Parson's line at the next practice.

Anatoly doesn't shame himself on the second line, but his plus/minus plummets.

Worse, so does Parson's when he's on the ice with with him. To the point it gets remarked on by the TV announcers during and after the third game.

Anatoly thinks that if this is how he ends his season in the NHL, looking like a burden to his teammates, he can never show his face in Vegas again.

Which is hyperbolic and melodramatic, but also easier to think about than the fact that he's still exempt from waivers. If he doesn't dig deeper, he's probably going back to Kansas and the AHL for good.  
  
  
Anatoly begins hanging back after practices to work on his face-offs. The assistant coach in charge of offense stays with him, and gets Prochazka to do the same so the other center can practice against him.

(It'll eventually turn into a long-running contest that also sparks Anatoly into hanging out with Chazzer more. After every practice for the rest of the season, Paul will run the two of them through ten face-offs, keeping an unofficial tally of who's ahead.

Anatoly and Chazzer will pick it up again at the start of next season, and then keep it going in the one after that, and on into the one after that. They'll still be doing it in 2014-15; Chazzer will be ahead again, but not by too much.)

It leaves Anatoly with less time to work on additional plays with Parson. He gives Parson a heads up the next day after the head coach wraps up practice, since Prochazka's said he'll stay behind again and the assistant coach is already getting the pucks.

"Cool," is all Parson says, nodding.

That isn't a lot to go on; and it's always hard to read Parson's face since he smiles so much. But this is two days after the announcers talked about Parson's plus/minus sinking whenever he's on a line with Anatoly.

So Anatoly grabs a water bottle and adds, "I'm gonna win more of these."

"Practice'll help," Parson agrees with him, drying his face with a towel. "And keep guys outta your head. They're just other players."

This is two days after Anatoly was in, and lost, four face-offs against _Jonathan Toews_ because that's the kind of player he's up against now on Parson's line. Anatoly downs some water and then puts the bottle back behind the bench when Prochazka calls across the ice for him to haul ass over here already, he's hungry.

As Anatoly skates over to the dot, he thinks this is the clearest difference there is between him and a guy who's gone from World Juniors to Memorial Cup playoffs to straight into the NHL.

Those top-six forwards and first-pairing defensemen on other teams really are just other players. To Parson.

Anatoly takes his place across from Prochazka and focuses on the puck.  
  
  
He gets dressed down by Coach Lewis after the fifth game where he's spent part of his ice time out on the second line.

It's not a huge surprise when it comes. That was the game where suddenly Parson tripled the amount of hits he normally did, which took it off Anatoly's plate.

Which is the opposite of what Anatoly knows the coach is expecting from him. His job is to win face-offs and get the puck to Parson and then get other guys out of Parson's way so he can score. His job is not, as Lewis reminds him, to hang around the net like a fucking cherry-picker like he's been fucking doing lately.

Anatoly's been going there because Parson keeps telling him to, before sending him the puck so Anatoly can fight it into the net. He's only gotten a goal off that twice in five games; but almost every time the goalie's rebounded the puck instead of freezing it, if nobody on the other team manages to clear it, Parson's already where the puck was headed and tearing off another shot at the net.

Almost every time.

That's not luck.

So if Parson tells him to go to the net, Anatoly's going to go to the goddamn net. He'll hold his position there, and he'll try for a goal, and he'll set Parson up for those rebounds that'll probably be haunting the nightmares of goalies across the league in a few years. There's a reason his and Parson's shots on goal have rocketed even as their plus/minus drops.

But Parson went off with the trainer to get his shoulder checked as soon as the game ended, so he's not in the locker room while Anatoly's getting reprimanded.

It wouldn't have mattered if he was; Anatoly's not going look like he's making excuses. He promises the coach he'll stop fucking around and get with the program.

"Hit more guys," Jeff says later, while Anatoly's taking him back to his apartment since Jeff banged up his hand on a guy's helmet bad enough that the trainer told him not to drive tonight. "Then he'll give you less shit."

Anatoly exhales through his teeth. "It's not gonna fix the problem."

"Sì, you'll still be shit at fights," Jeff replies.

"Fuck you."

Jeff rolls his eyes. "What problem?"

"Getting it to him," Anatoly replies; and Jeff looks over as he realizes he's serious. "It keeps getting cleared before he can get a stick on it."

"Tell Zazzy move his ass faster."

"I **been** telling him," Anatoly snaps. "He says he can't hear me. How fuckin' loud am I supposed to be shouting, I need a fucking bullhorn?"

Jeff blows his bangs off his forehead, but thinks about it.

"...I don't know, Vich," he says. "Get Coach off your back, hit more guys. Buy time."

Anatoly exhales again tiredly. "Yeah, all right."  
  
  
"Stop hitting guys so much," Parson replies in the workout room the next day, when Anatoly tells him they've gotta change the way they're playing and listen to Lewis more.

Neither Jeff nor Parson are stupid, and Anatoly isn't either, so one of the three of them is seeing something the other two aren't. Anatoly asks, "Why?"

Parson's focused on the screen of the bike he's riding, so he's not looking at Anatoly when he says, "You don't want to hurt guys when you do it."

Because Parser hasn't known Anatoly long enough to really trust him yet, so he doesn't say it the way he's probably really thinking: _You worry too much about hurting the opposition_.

Anatoly starts to say, "I'm not a cowar--" and Parson shakes his head.

"You don't want to hurt guys, Vichy." He glances over, half-smiling. "We gotta have somebody we know isn't gonna go in the box even if he gets pissed, right?"

Anatoly pauses before answering to take a gulp of water because his throat's been getting drier as he jogs. But Parson must read something else in the silence.

"I know it's not working," Parson says as Anatoly's dropping his bottle back in the holder; and Anatoly blinks, because he's pretty sure that's an edge of frustration underneath his words. Which is unusual.

Parson breathes out and wipes away the sweat on his brow. "You don't wanna hurt guys, but you aren't gonna take shit from them. Nobody can push you around when you go on the attack unless they're ready to get ugly."

Anatoly blinks again. ". . . Thanks."

Parson just shrugs. "It's true."

Parson isn't the most talkative guy about what he's thinking and he rarely gets visibly pissed off, which is why Anatoly assumed Parson's getting fed up with him being an albatross around the neck of their line and just not saying it out loud.

So Parson complimenting him....

Anatoly scratches the back of his neck. "We could try playing it that way," he suggests.

"Won't work," Parson answers immediately. "Zazzy fights too much. Soon as he goes to the net, the refs'll call him for cross-checking or interference or some other shit. But if it's you there, they'll know you're defending your position."

Anatoly snorts reflexively. "I got more penalty minutes than Zhadan."

"Because of how you were played," Parson answers. "Refs know you don't start fights, Vichy. You hit clean. They won't call shit on you like they will Zazzy."

Which is not the first time Anatoly registers just how closely Parser actually pays attention to his teammates. That's a couple months away.

But it's the first time he gets an impression of the depth and breadth of mental notes Parser keeps on the boys, and the way it influences those off-the-cuff plays he calls on the ice.

When Anatoly doesn't answer immediately, Parson exhales for longer and then looks back down at the screen on his bike, eyes narrowed slightly as he ostensibly tracks his numbers.

"You're right," Parson finally concedes. "It's not working." He tightens his grip on the handlebars. "Alright. We'll stick to Coach Lewis's plays."

 _What **are** you?_ Anatoly thinks.

"Okay," he agrees, since that's a better response.

Parson nods once before putting his earbuds back in.

Because it'll take a couple more seasons for Parser to start trusting Anatoly enough to say out loud most of the things he's probably thinking: _I know who the real weak link is._  
  
  
In 2010 the Las Vegas Aces beat out Colorado by two points to become a playoff seed for the first time in the club's five seasons.

They lose their first two games in San Jose.

During the third game in Vegas, their power play unit nearly gives the Sharks a shorty third period in the most horrifying five seconds of Anatoly's life, when one of their boys sends a drop pass behind him even though Anatoly fucking said he was going up and that Zhadan should side pass it to him at neutral ice.

The puck sails behind Zhadan toward the Aces' empty net, because the coach pulled their goalie to give them the extra man. Anatoly hears Zhadan yell his name as he heads farther into the neutral zone, glances back to catch the too-damn-soon-pass, registers what's happened, and tears around to try and intercept the puck even though he knows he's not gonna make it in time.

Parson comes flying in from the other side, ripping off a one-timer to send the puck up and across the ice into the netting above the Sharks' zone. He loses his wheels as he does, hitting the ice and sliding across it to slam spine-first into the boards. The refs whistle to call the Aces for icing.

Anatoly wins the next face-off, but Parson fumbles the puck and ends up turning it over to a Shark. The trainer talks to him about his arm and back when they return to the bench.

The Aces lose. Again.

Anatoly staggers back to the locker room with the rest of the boys afterward, exhausted and aching and furious and almost nauseous. They can't let themselves be swept out of the playoffs after finally arriving, they can't get humiliated like that in their own goddamn barn next game, they _can't_.

"The fuck was that?!" Parson snarls behind him when they're in the locker room.

Anatoly clenches his jaw and turns around; but Parson's glaring at Zhadan.

Zhadan throws his gloves into his stall, scowling at Anatoly. "I sent it back like we were supposed to, where the fuck were yo--"

"Which ain't fuckin' working," Parson spits, getting in Zhadan's face, "so we were gonna do _better_. The **fuck'd** you ignore Vichy's call!?"

Which in hindsight should've been one of several warnings about the kind of problems Parser was going to have with Coach Lewis by the end.

Zhadan backs up; but Parson just keeps coming after him. Zhadan finally plants his feet. "I didn't hear him--"

"You don't hear shit on left since that January hit," Parson sneers. "How fuckin' long you gonna drag the rest of us down, asshole?!"

Which is the first time Anatoly registers just how closely Parser pays attention to his teammates.

Over by the doors, two of the veteran defensemen look at each other. Then O'Patrick gets up and shuts the doors to the locker room. Walczak finishes unhooking his jersey and pulls it off.

Zhadan pulls back slightly before catching himself. "The hell are you talk--?"

" _How fuckin' long?!_ "

"Listen you little--" Zhadan snaps, grabbing a handful of Parson's jersey. Parson slugs him hard in the forearm.

Walczak comes over and shoves them apart. Zhadan scowls more as he's forced back; Parson wrenches sharply away from Walczak.

Which is the first time Anatoly witnesses how violently Parser dislikes being touched when he's angry.

Or being touched by angry people.

Which will slowly grow into one of the several reasons why, by five years from now, Anatoly will genuinely hate a man he's never met before in his life.

And why he'll still hate Jack Zimmermann even after Anatoly's known Parser for more than long enough to be sure that Parser and Zimmermann were equally as bad for, and to, each other.

"Nobody wants to lose," Walczak says steadily to Parson, pushing Zhadan back further with a hand on the other man's chest. "Guys don't improve by getting yelled at, kid. Go shower and cool off, and then say what you think's the problem we gotta work on."

"The fuckin' prob--"

"Showers, Parse," Walczak repeats. "They're lettin' media in in fifteen."

Parson exhales harsh and slow through his teeth; but he backs off and turns for his stall.

The Aces' captain gives Walczak a flat look once things are broken up, because Reboul's rule is that guys have to work out their own shit on the team, it ain't his job to babysit. The alternate captain ignores it and goes back to his stall.

Parson sets a record for undressing, rapidly ditching the locker room for the showers. Zhadan takes a lot more time.

Once Parson's gone, the rookie defenseman in the stall next to Anatoly's says quietly, "What the fuuuuuuuuck."

Anatoly likes Showy. He's a fun man to watch movies and dissect their narratives with, and he and Anatoly bonded over being the only ones on the Sovereigns last year who did college--even though Showy was originally drafted by Atlanta before getting traded into the Aces' organization, and he played for Michigan, literal leagues above UNLV's level.

But all Anatoly can think to say in response is, "No kiddin'."

Parson doesn't like losing anymore than any of them do; but he's never called one of the boys out in front of everyone like that before. He's sure as shit never nearly started a fight over a bad play.

 _Playoffs string everyone out_ , Anatoly reminds himself, finishing undressing and heading for the showers himself.  
  
  
They win game four 4-3. It's Vegas' sole 2010 playoff win.

Parson has his first career hat trick that game, like he intends to carry the team on his back straight into the finals if that's what it takes.  
  
  
When they lose game five back in San Jose and drop out of the playoffs, Anatoly watches Parson smash his stick against a corner once they're off the ice and away from the cameras.

Parson drops the broken handle against the wall and leaves it there as he continues to the locker room. But he doesn't say anything to anyone. He keeps his face blank through undressing and the captain cussing out the defensemen for playing hesitant and through showers and the head coach's final comments. Parson doesn't start showing emotion again until the media's allowed in, when he looks exhausted and frustrated and despondent, the same as all of them.

It isn't something Anatoly registers at the time, because he's too busy being exhausted and frustrated and despondent himself.

But he'll recall it a couple years later.  
  
  
Nobody is surprised when the club makes Parson its new captain over the summer.

Anatoly already knew from his sources that the front office told Reboul his contract wasn't going to be extended after the playoff loss. Theoretically, they could've just made a couple more of the boys alternate captains for the coming season, to give Parson more time to adapt; but Parson not only successfully came straight into the NHL from Juniors, he also posted stats like a veteran, took top or close-enough rank in several of the rookies' categories, and earned the 2010 Calder. He made himself look like a safe bet.

The Aces make the announcement a week after Reboul's official retirement following his surgery, between the awards ceremony and the start of the draft.

At 19 years and 356 days, it makes Kent Parson the third youngest permanent captain, and the youngest American-born captain, in NHL history.  
  
  
During the the 2009-10 season Anatoly pays off the principle and then the interest on his student loans.

The Aces offer him a one-year extension on his contract. Anatoly accepts and starts saving for a house for his parents.  
  
  
  
  
  
Zhadan doesn't make the cut in next season's training camp.

Parson plays with him like normal when the coaches put Anatoly and Parson and Zhadan back together for one run; but whenever there's a break in practice, the guy Parson's practicing passes and deflections with is the Sovereigns player who was called up late last season for several games to take Anatoly's place on the fourth line. Smith didn't really stand out there--but he's a natural left-winger and Jeff already had that spot locked down, so not standing out while playing center was better than screwing up.

Parson spends a **lot** of time playing around with a puck with Smith during breaks.

And the coaches have been keeping Anatoly and Parson together as lineys; but they've been cycling through left-wingers so far at camp.

Anatoly can recognize patterns, and it isn't hard to see that Parson's subtly promoting Smith the same way he did Anatoly last season, shortly before the coaches began assigning them as linemates.

"For real?" Jeff says, when Anatoly mentions it during lunch.

Anatoly shrugs.

Jeff doesn't say anything at first, chewing his spaghetti slowly as he thinks about it.

"Makes sense," Jeff says at last. "You said the problem is rebounds are cleared before Parse gets them?"

A lot of people assume Jeff's a dumb guy because he's an agitator and a fourth-liner, because he's blunt and open and half his English is brotastic and the rest is swearing, because he falters when trying to say unfamiliar polysyllabic words and would in fact punch Anatoly for using 'polysyllabic' because he'd know Anatoly was doing it to be a dick.

But he's got a memory Anatoly would've killed for back when he was studying for finals.

"Yeah," Anatoly agrees, once he recalls the conversation Jeff's referring to.

Jeff nods. "Mitts will fix that. Fucker's great at cleaning up trash."

"Huh," Anatoly says.

Jeff points his fork at him. "You would know if you hung out with us in Wichita."

"He's an _ass_."

"So am I."

"I've only got room for two asses in my life," Anatoly replies dryly, "and one of 'em's already permanently attached."

Jeff snorts derisively.

"You are so fuckin' bad at this. I was gonna say Parse needs quit poaching my lineys, but fuck your piss-poor chirps. Good riddance," he retorts, giving him the finger. Anatoly sniggers.  
  
  
He and Parson and Smith get played more and more on the same line in the last half of camp, but it's the penultimate day when they really gel.

Smith's up by the net, blocking the goalie's view and jostling with Showy as the defenseman tries to shove him over. Anatoly catches a pass from Parson and powers through the middle ice, shooting at the goal before the other d-man coming for him can force him too far aside. Burival blocks it; Smith gets his stick on the puck before Showy can clear it and tries to force it in again, only to have Burival kick it free to the side.

Just as Parson arrives to slam a one-timer into the net past Burival's head.

 _Holy shit_ , Anatoly thinks, because that's never worked so sweet before.

The goalie points his stick at Parson in warning. "Keep 'em down, Parse."

Parson gives him a small salute, grinning. "My bad."

Burival keeps pointing at him for a moment longer. Showy clears the puck out of the net, cussing appreciatively.  
  
  
Their first game of preseason against the Ducks, Anatoly's listed on the first line.

 _Holy shit_ , Anatoly thinks again, even though he knows he should've expected it. He's playing with the captain now.

But god **damn**. If only he could go back and tell his sixteen-year-old self reading that rejection from USADP to not bother crying and just get back to work on his passing, it's going to get so much better.  
  
  
Parson takes being captain way, way more seriously than anybody predicted.

In hindsight, they shouldn't've been surprised. You tell someone from a military family he's now in a position with specific hierarchical responsibilities, in a sport where the usual war terminology takes on stronger connotations because that's what happens when you drop thirty-eight men with sticks into a walled-up space and tell them come back with their shield or on it, and yeah. It's not a shock that Parson's captain style is intense.

And that's Anatoly being generous. Showy hit the nail better on the head with "Dude's got boundary issues."

It didn't start out that bad. And it was such a change from the previous captain's behavior, in a good way.

Parser's always ready to spend extra time with someone who's going through a slump. He works hard to make everyone feel like one of the boys, even if they're call-ups or trades or rentals or on expiring contracts. He doesn't ignore it when guys get pissed off with each other, and he gets them to work their shit out in a way that makes them think it was their idea. He tries not to play favorites.

But then everyone kept letting Parser get away with more and more, until a lot of shit became normalized to the team and a major learning curve to new guys or front office staff coming in.

And then more seasons pass, and the pressure builds for the Aces to start succeeding deeper into the playoffs and win another Cup, and it starts seriously getting to Parser.

It gets to all of the boys, especially the core guys. But Parser's the one who became captain in his sophomore year and proceeded to lead the team to its second playoff appearance and first Stanley Cup; he set the bar toweringly high for himself.

And every year that he fails to reach it again, Parser enters the next season a little more relentless and obsessed.

Especially once it gets obvious he feels Zimmermann's looming entry into the league chasing closer and closer on his heels.

But that all comes later.  
  
  
When they win the 2011 Stanley Cup Anatoly carries it over his head around the rink at TD Garden yelling at the top of his lungs the whole time even though his broken nose hurts like shit, because every goddamn asshole who's trash-talked how Vegas's pathetic, theatrical, fights-over-goals Aces aren't a 'real' hockey team can goddamn **eat it** because _they won the Stanley Cup motherfuckers!_

He can barely breathe when he finishes the circle and hands the Cup over to Jeff, who struggles to hold it one-armed after the separated shoulder he got second period.

Anatoly helps him get it cradled and then dives into the dogpile of his boys, wading through to bearhug their goalie once again and then more headlocking than hugging their captain because Parser's laughing so hard and so happily he's doubled over.

Jeff comes back from the half-circuit he made before giving the Cup to his older liney who's just played his second full season in the NHL this year, because Jeff's a fucking good guy and he deserves this, Anatoly deserves this, he earned it, the whole team, the Aces' organization, **Vegas** deserves this--and past the boys behind the glass Anatoly can see his parents hugging and Nadimochka beating on the glass and cheering, and he thinks that this is the greatest day of his life.  
  
  
That June, the Aces offer him a four-year extension on his contract.

Anatoly signs it despite his agent's warning that it's less money than he could get if he rejects it and goes RFA. Other clubs are going to send offer sheets worth more than this to a top-six forward who's a Stanley Cup champion, Ramez reminds him; if the Aces really want Anatoly, they'll match the offer he signs.

Anatoly comprehends that loyalty is meaningless in business and that the odds of his dedication to this organization ever being returned is slim to none.

But Vegas is his home.

And the Aces are Vegas's team. And yes he understands that he is not making a fiscally wise choice but he's accepting their offer regardless so please hand it over already, Ramez.  
  
  
Anatoly wants to believe that the club would've offered him a larger contract, if only somebody hadn't put a Stanley Cup win into the schedule B goals in Parser's contract in a move the club's capologist is probably cursing every morning he wakes now.

Anatoly wants to believe that under other circumstances they would've given him more money, if only the club's financial future would have enabled it. Because businesses are businesses; but nothing runs without the power of story. Especially not in sports.

Anatoly knows that already, at twenty-five, he's done everything he's demanded of himself.

He's paid off his loans. He's bought a house for his parents in a neighborhood where he and Nadimochka checked that people won't give Mom and Dad shit for their awkward English. He's put a good chunk of his money into CDs with staggered return rates so the dividends will keep accruing.

He spent a little more money and time than he should've getting a second full sleeve tattoo on his right arm. And he also kind of lost his mind and bought a Bulgari watch for Nadimochka and then a sports car that put him right back into debt after the Cup win, but he can pay those back soon enough. And he talked about the car with his parents and Nadimochka before returning to the dealership and dropping cash for the down payment like a goddamn badass high roller.

"Baller," Nadimochka says dryly, once the Koenigsegg Agera R is imported and they're driving it back to their condo; and Anatoly cracks up laughing so hard he has to pull over when his nose starts hurting again because YES THEY FUCKING ARE.

Nothing in the world runs without the power of story, and Anatoly's a hometown boy who's done good. He's taken care of his parents and his woman. He's paid his debts, monetarily and in the minors. He's made his city proud.

Everything after this is just accruing personal glory.  
  
  
  
  
  
Which is good, because then comes next season.

They get taken seriously this time around, treated like playoff contenders. Teams begin strategizing to shut them down before they can build momentum. Guys start pulling dirtier hits on Anatoly until he gets fed up and begins knocking them on their ass or over the rail into the bench if they try it. Parser gets the first puck intentionally shot at him of his career.

Games get even harder to win. The pressure from fans is intense, now that there's a Stanley Cup banner hanging in the arena.  
  
  
Anatoly gives up on trying to get Jeff and Parser to be friends early in that year.

Jeff doesn't trust guys who're too secretive, which is Parser to a T; and Parser doesn't know what to do with guys who are open and direct about what they're thinking and feeling, which is Jeff to a U.

Anatoly can recognize lost causes for what they are. And Jeff and Parser are professionals; they don't take it on the ice, and they don't bring the rest of the boys into it.

Which is more than can be said about the head coach lately.  
  
  
By the last couple months of the season, Lewis's decisions have gotten so questionable that Anatoly breaks the truce he and Walczak have going and tells the man that he's not looking for info and he'll keep his mouth shut, but what the _hell_ is going on?!

Walczak tells him it's being dealt with and to keep an eye on Kent.

Meanwhile, Parser is himself and just starts improvising on and redoing Lewis's plays out on the ice as if he were a player-coach.

So--because Lewis is one of those men who can't handle perceived threats from subordinates, and because Parser knows how to read people but still cares more about winning games than anything else--it's not long before the already-tense situation between the Aces' head coach and their captain shatters completely.

Anatoly hasn't played for a huge number teams in his career. But he's pretty sure that during those couple of months between the game in Houston when the head coach started going after Parser hard, until the time that the front office maneuvered Lewis out, the Aces are high on the list of fucked up locker rooms. They aren't Habs level, but they're up there.

Parser carries through like things are normal, like this bullshit is fine, when everyone who knows him knows he'd be doing something if it were happening to anyone else on the team. When he hits the ice--when he gets ice time and isn't scratched for insubordination, though that's never listed as the real reason--nobody watching the games would have an idea of the garbage Parser's been surviving in the locker room.

It gets Parser a lot of respect from the boys on the roster during that stretch, though Anatoly isn't sure he's aware of it.

Parser's a twenty-one-year-old kid, and he could've turned around and taken that shit out on the rest of the boys; and he didn't. Even Jeff acknowledged it.

Parser gets a lot more withdrawn and self-contained around then, though. He wears a default smile through those months that will still piss Anatoly off if he sees it in the future, because he'll know viscerally just how fake it is.

The Aces get seeded into the playoffs but lose in the first round. And that's it for 2011-12.  
  
  
Jeff gets married during offseason, because apparently Luisa decided to settle, which is exactly what Anatoly says as soon as he gets the news. Jeff threatens to figure out a way to punch him through Skype; Anatoly triple dog dares him to pull it off.

At least Jeff actually tells him. Showy just went and eloped with Rae last year when she got pregnant, and didn't tell any of the boys about it until his defense partner noticed the ring and loudly called Showy out on it in the middle of the locker room.

\--Which, given the protracted amount of hell Anatoly and the boys put Showy through for that, is probably why Jeff owned up in advance.

Nadimochka's leery of leaving the country, so she and Anatoly don't attend the actual wedding in Trieste, but they ship gifts. Anatoly gets several of the boys who both like Jeff and have been annoyed to hell by him in the past to go to Jeff's in-season condo--which Jeff gave Anatoly a spare key to, like a fool--and help him plant slips of paper throughout full of terrible, pompous, and/or psychotic relationship advice that Anatoly and Showy've penned.

"Pal," O'Patrick says to Showy, reading through some of the slips, "what in the ever-lovin' fuck is wrong with you?"

"Did you get the ones I cribbed from Night Vale?" Showy calls back to the other d-man without turning away from the kitchen cabinets.

"From what?"

"Never mind, old man, too hip for you," Showy answers. O'Patrick drops his slips and goes over to headlock him.

"It's gonna serve you right if he sells this place and the next owner's like 'what the shit,'" Jeff's liney Kirby says, from where he's pulled the couch away from the wall and started taping slips to the back of it, apparently.

"He'd still have to do a walk-through," Anatoly grins. He tapes another slip high up along the wall, because Jeff's just short enough Anatoly knows he won't be able to reach it without a footstool, meaning it's two chirps for the price of one. "Or if he's lazy and leaves it to the office, hey, that's his problem if they call him up and are like, 'The fuck is this?'"

"You are the worst friend, bro," Chazzer comments, from where he's leaning against the wall and filming Showy and O'Patrick wrestling on his phone.

"I am the _best goddamn friend_ ," Anatoly retorts, "you know how long this shit took to print and cut?"

"Laaaaaame."

"Shuddup and help more."  
  
  
  
  
  
And then the lockout comes.

Anatoly returns from Yekaterinburg physically exhausted from the jet lag and emotionally exhausted from the last three-plus months.

He returns home after months of living in a rented room in the house of a bunch of strangers who're technically family, people who Anatoly has to perpetually be on his best behavior toward no matter what--because he isn't just an NHL player currently in the KHL because of the lockout, he's also the representative for his parents and the choices they made thirty years ago to the family they left behind and left marked as relatives of defectors.

(Nadimochka told him to be patient with them, whenever Anatoly snarled about the comments on how it must be hard for him to go from the desert to a place as cold as Yekaterinburg--like he wasn't a goddamn **hockey player** \--or how having so many tattoos could get him mistaken for a criminal, or a hundred other little things that got under his skin until if only Anatoly could've justified subtracting the cost of a hotel from the college fund he and Nadimochka set up for their future kids, he would've done it and moved out without a word.

Which would've been about the same thing Anatoly's father did back in 1979, except Anatoly would've been moving to a hotel in same city instead of emigrating to another country.

He never brought the topic up to Nadimochka.

Anatoly was pretty sure she'd agree they could afford it if he'd asked--but she had too much to worry about as it was, with the rumors that layoffs were going to hit her casino next. It was Anatoly's responsibility to man up and focus on their future, not his temporary problems. He was the one who chose to sign into the KHL in the first place.

It was there, or the AHL, or nowhere. The NLA was only interested in more elite talent than Anatoly. Talent like Parser.

There were EIHL clubs that would've happily signed him--but Anatoly's agent warned him that his brand would be severely impacted by going there, and Anatoly had no intention of doing so anyway.

The EIHL was where fourth line goons went because they couldn't do better. Anatoly knew a lot of people thought he was only producing top six numbers because he was on the same line as Parser; there was no chance in hell he was going to add fuel to that.

None of those logical and rational arguments made it any easier to wake up in that house and city and country every day for months on end.

Nadimochka told him to be patient, because Anatoly--a millennial American who had no real memories from before the Berlin wall went down, who never set foot in Russia before this year, who was raised in an individualistic culture that insisted grit and perseverance and hard work would always trump political and personal connections--couldn't understand the magnitude of his parents' betrayal to those left behind to deal with the fallout: their relatives, their coworkers, the people who wrote their character references, the people that signed off on their applications to travel abroad, the people who all collectively had to answer for the embarrassment Ivan and Valeria brought upon the CCCP by defecting.

She told him that no, it wasn't fair that he had to represent choices he had no involvement in--but neither was life, and they all had to live it regardless.

So Anatoly kept his mouth shut, and kept his head up, and stayed polite even when he wanted to slug someone for yet another assholish comment, and he did his best to prove that his parents raised a good, responsible, filial son and they did it in the motherfucking United States so _fuck you_.)

Anatoly also returns after burning up all his favors and info to get Nadimochka a new job after she was caught in the latest round of casino layoffs, because if she doesn't have work her visa's shot.

It wasn't enough. Anatoly also returns to Vegas owing one of the silent investors for hiring her.

He might've been able to avoid getting ensnared like that if he'd traded on the news about Sturluson and the painkillers. That info would've been worth a lot, since it's going to impact more and more games and trade possibilities in the future.

But Anatoly couldn't figure out a way to sell it that wouldn't put Showy in the crossfire because of how long the other man's kept his mouth shut about what he knows. And if Anatoly can't keep Showy's name out, it's useless information to him, because that's a shit thing to do to a friend.

On top of all that, he returns home with his brand hit hard thanks to that motherfucking asshole who secretly recorded their conversation when Anatoly was being goddamned stupidly blunt, and who published it just to try and make the NHL look bad, without giving a shit about how it would put Anatoly's career in the crosshairs.

(For the first time, he empathized with Parser's virulent hatred of reporters and the media.)

And he returns after some of the worst fights he and Nadiya have ever had.

Because Nadiya feels about Russia generally the way Anatoly feels about Las Vegas specifically, and by December Anatoly couldn't successfully conceal how much he hated it there: the culture shock, the arrogance, the weight playing hockey carried. The reminder that he can't seem to fit in anywhere: in America, people hear his name and assume he's not a goddamn rightful U.S. citizen, and in Russia people heard his accent and looked down on his parents for emigrating, like they were _wrong_ to get out of this place and go somewhere better.

By December Anatoly couldn't conceal how badly he wanted to get out of that place himself and finally be back home. It put a strain on his and Nadiya's relationship.

They worked through it, because they'd dealt with long-term distance and frustration before, and it's not like either of them didn't already know this about each other.

Nadimochka's lived in Vegas for eight years now, and she chose to stay in the U.S. when her husband went back to Russia; but she still gets homesick. She misses St. Petersburg and her family and her childhood friends.

And while Anatoly's gotten a little more liberal and a decidedly lot more libertarian since September, as Nadimochka points out in one Skype conversation, he's ready to hate anything related to Russia without bothering to learn deeper about it because he's defensive about being regarded as Russian when he considers himself--when he _is_ , Anatoly interrupts, proving her point--an American.

When his plane finally lands in McCarran, Anatoly decides to hell with international travel. He's never crossing any border but the Canadian one ever again.

Sole exception: if they enter Bizzaro World and he somehow gets selected for the Olympics. He's not _that_ stubborn.

Nadimochka meets him at the airport, because it's too late for Anatoly to ask his parents and he would've woken her up coming back to their condo anyway. Anatoly picks her up and spins her around the baggage claim until one of the security guards tells him they have to stop; in the parking garage, he drops his suitcase and equipment bag and drapes himself over the hood of his car.

"You were wise to hug me first," Nadimochka comments.

"I couldn't kiss the tarmac when we landed," Anatoly replies, because he **probably** wouldn't have, but they were routed through a tunnel so the question was moot. "I can get away with this."

Nadimochka places a hand on her hip and shakes her head.

"The car's Swedish, Tolyenka," she points out, and Anatoly groans, "/Nadimochka _please just let me have this_./"

She doesn't say anything for a moment, and then Anatoly hears a phone camera click.

When he tilts his head to look over, she's texting. "Natty."

"Mm, no," Nadimochka replies, half-smiling faintly. "Jeff deserves to see this."

Anatoly drops his head back to the hood. "Jeff'll understand."

"And still chirp you for a week."

That is 1000% true, so all Anatoly says is, "Worth it."

Nadimochka chuckles quietly and unlocks the trunk.  
  
  
Anatoly returns from Russia physically and emotionally exhausted.

Parser comes back from Switzerland with some quality stats that won't appear in his NHL record, after a long-term hookup with some chick(?) the boys never got him to admit to, and having gotten to make a brief jaunt back home to the U.S. to play in a charity game.

Parser also comes back after arriving out of nowhere to help Anatoly smooth over the fallout from that motherfucking asshole reporter's article and to help him minimize the damage to his brand.

Parser comes back after being stuck on another continent while the majority of his family and childhood friends got hit by Hurricane Sandy.

And according to the alternate captain, Parser comes back after getting more and more strung out over the last couple weeks until the league and the PA finally reached a new agreement.

Anatoly takes Walczak at his word. Walczak seems to be the one Parser talked to the most while he was in Switzerland, save for a few times the boys methodically chirped Parser until they finally got enough of a rise out of him that he texted back for longer than a couple minutes.

And there's no question that the first 50+ hours after Sandy hit all Kent's messages and emails were a total wreck grammar- and coherency-wise, sent at times Anatoly knew were way too late or early for Fribourg's time zone.

And then there's the fact that Anatoly and Parser were the only guys on the Aces that went to continental teams.

Jeff wanted to play in Italy; but his agent warned him that signing a contract with anything less than a Serie A team could negatively affect his brand: being the Aces' go-to agitator was already all it could handle. And none of those teams were smart enough to want him.

Anatoly knows Showy had offers, but he cited a family issue and turned them all down. His wife had been dealing with postpartum depression after their daughter was born last season, which made Showy a stressed wreck on long roadies; and he was good enough that he could afford to use the lockout to be with his family without a long-term impact on his career.

Most of the boys got assigned to the AHL in Kansas, or couldn't get contracts anywhere better than the EIHL. If they played somewhere at all.

They were shit months for everyone, Anatoly reminds himself. _Don't be an asshole._  
  
  
After the lockout, Anatoly starts deliberately downplaying his family name in favor of his patronymic in the locker room.

The boys and the coaches and the equipment guys already use "Ivanovich" or "Vichy" or "Anatoly" instead of Klimentov; and new guys and call-ups usually pick that up and start emulating it fast.

Anatoly used to just let it happen naturally--but after he returns from Yekaterinburg, he starts casually correcting guys at the start: "Call me Ivanovich."

"Noted, Ishmael," Showy calls over the first time Anatoly says it to Tobin. Anatoly lobs a glove at him.

He tries to be casual about it. But it's pretty obvious he's failed when Walczak leans beside his stall the second day of their rushed training camp and says, "Family, huh?"

"Yeah," is all Anatoly replies.

Walczak nods and pushes away from the stall; and that's that. Pretty soon even the front office quits using his family name, except where they have to: official communications and promos, merchandise. Interviews.

Anatoly doesn't want to do anything as dramatic as changing his jersey or his nameplate, since that'll attract attention to his personal life and Anatoly's father already gets uncomfortable around the cameras during the annual dads' trips. This is enough.

He mentioned in an interview a couple years ago that he wears the number 81 because 1981 was the year the U.S. gave his parents asylum. He's made it clear which people and what country has really been behind him the whole time he's worked his way up into the NHL. It's enough.

A couple reporters pick up on it during the season, and start consciously using Anatoly's patronymic or given name in verbal interviews, even if they still convert it to "[Klimentov]" in print.

It's Collins and Yerby, weirdly: the local blogger who's hands-down the one media member even Parser consistently likes, and the freelancer who gets along with the Aces' captain about as well as Ellsworth Toohey did with Howard Roark.

Though if Collins is smart enough to have figured out how to handle Parser, she's smart enough to notice a quiet sea change in the Aces' organization. And Yerby's more of a bleeding-heart than Anatoly has patience for, but he's not actively an asshole the way Parser interprets him as. So not that weird.

It's enough.  
  
  
In January 2013, the artistic director of the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow is attacked in front of his home with acid, something Anatoly learns when he comes back from practice the afternoon before the Aces' first game of the season and finds the TV knocked back and slumped awkwardly against the wall, its screen cracked near the upper corner. Nadimochka is in the kitchen, violently washing the dishes by hand.

Anatoly will always hate that his first, automatic thought is _Have I not dealt with enough shit already?_

Anatoly sets his bag down carefully by the doorway. "...Are you hurt?"

"/I'm fine, thank you/," she answers emotionlessly.

"Nadimochka," is all Anatoly says in response, because he has working eyes and ears.

"/I am fine/," Nadimochka repeats, jaw tight. "/I knew Russia is sick. We failed her. I have no right to complain when I chose to abandon--/"

She drops something metallic into the sink and throws the sponge angrily into it as well. "/How _**dare** they?!_ /" she spits, before bracing her forearms on the counter and screaming wordlessly.

Anatoly rounds the counter and wraps his arms around her, guiding her out of the kitchen so he has enough space to pick her up.

He's still a little worn from practice, and Nadimochka's tall enough that even after almost nine years Anatoly still doesn't know how to do this without feeling like it's awkward; but Nadimochka's hiding her face behind her hands now, and he has bigger things to worry about.

Nadimochka hates trying to talk when she's crying, so for a while they just lie on the couch. He rubs her back as she slowly pieces herself into a facade of calmness; and after she's washed her face and fixed her makeup, she tells him what happened in Moscow.

Later, after she's left for her shift, Anatoly calls his dad and asks if he can come over to see if the TV's salvageable.

While they're grounding the table in preparation for opening the TV to check the wiring, Anatoly's dad explains the symbolic meaning of the Bolshoi and tells him to be patient with Nadimochka.

"/It was hard even for me to hear, Tolyenka,/" says Ivan--a man who leveraged his own flawless criminal and work records and his extensive overtime following Yekaterinburg's anthrax outbreak, along with his wife's history of activism in the party, to get the two of them travel permits for the same tourist trip to Canada in 1979: an extremely rare occurrence of the USSR allowing a husband and wife to travel together, because it was easier to make people think twice about defecting if their spouse was held hostage back at home instead of able to sneak out of the hotel in the dead of night at their side. "/I can only imagine it's much worse for someone from that world./"

Anatoly suspects that's true, but it doesn't explain how intensely Nadimochka reacted.

Stress would, though.

He's had enough examples--Showy's incessant restlessness on roadies last year, Parser's frenetic pace since coming back from Switzerland, Anatoly's own time on the fourth line and during that AHL conditioning stint his rookie year--that he's pretty sure he knows what he's seeing here.

Nadimochka's been working dealers' tables for a decade now, which is a long damn time to spend pleasantly conning money out of people who deliberately come to Vegas to be their worst selves.

Anatoly spent less than a year working craps tables, and he hated it sometimes. And Nadimochka's less aggressively cold about her job than Anatoly was; as far as he'd been concerned, nobody forced these people to come to Vegas to behave like assholes and throw away their money. They'd made their own choices, and the consequences weren't Anatoly's problem unless he'd had to call security. The pit boss had frequently been forced to warn him to keep a blank face at the tables--it probably would've cost Anatoly the job, if he hadn't gotten it through a friend and he hadn't been a paragon of trustworthiness since he intended to make a career in hockey and wasn't going to damage that with petty theft of drinks or change.

Nadimochka isn't as cold as he was; and she doesn't have an end in sight like he did.

She has a duration of status stamp on her visa, instead of an explicit end date to her authorized stay; but that means the second she's unemployed, she's out-of-status and in violation of U.S. immigration law.

(She should have been out-of-status as soon as she was laid off.

It was the Wynn that filed the petition her visa was based on. Anatoly didn't discuss it with his lawyer, mostly because he'd already been contacted by one of the silent investors by the time he'd gotten off the Skype call from Nadimochka and had mostly finished freaking out now that he didn't have to keep it together to help her stay calm as well. But he knows enough about immigration law to be _pretty_ goddamn sure those forms don't transfer.

When he brought it up in the sole phone call he had with the silent investor, the man told him that it would be taken care of.

The new I-140 form she needed would be expedited. When Nadiya showed up for her new position at MGM Grand on Thursday, everything with her visa would be in order at Homeland Security.

Anatoly backed right the fuck off of speaking about anything else in that vein, because a critical part of being successful at selling information is spotting the information that's way too dangerous to know.

Nadimochka showed up Thursday. Everything was fine. So far, the biggest impact immigration officers have had on their lives is Anatoly's annual visitor records for away games in Canada; but still.

Anatoly is aware of the irony that he--the only United States citizen _jus soli_ in his family, the only member of his family who's constitutionally protected from any asshole who wants to throw him out of his own goddamn country just because they don't like Anatoly's name or parents or physical appearance or the fact that they can't match the level of competition he works his ass off to bring--the irony that he still spends what feels like every other day thinking about citizenship status.

He should have predicted that was where the silent investors would hit him at.

His parents are naturalized; Nadimochka was the weakest point. He should've known they'd go after her. The timing of that phone call made it clear they were biding their time to deal with him efficiently and quietly.)

(During the 2012-13 season Anatoly's stats will consistently fall almost every single time he shares the ice with Walczak. He'll never ask Walczak if the man named him to the silent investors; but the thought's there.)

After Anatoly's dad gets the TV working again--even if the colors are weird around the cracked part of the screen--and leaves, Anatoly calls his agent.

When the man answers, Anatoly says, "I have an issue that's got some complicated factors I need to talk to you about."

"Congratulations," Ramez says dryly, "you just made the list of clients that elevated my heart rate in less than a minute."

Anatoly suspects he made that list after the Sun published its translation of that motherfucking reporter's article, but that's neither here nor there. "I mean it, Ramez."

"Okay, Anatoly," his agent replies, serious now. "Let me get into my office."

Anatoly paces the living room as he hears Ramez tell one of his kids he has to work and he'll be back later. A few moments later there's the sound of a door closing in the background; and then the sound changes as Ramez switches him to speaker. "Talk to me."

When Anatoly asks for recommendations on lawyers used to working with permanent citizenship through marriage cases, the first thing Ramez says is, "Congratulations!"

"I haven't proposed yet," Anatoly replies.

"Still," Ramez says warmly. "I figured this would be coming. I put together a few things, let's see...." There's the noise of filing cabinet drawers and papers for a little while, and then Ramez continues, "She's still here on a work visa, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Shouldn't need a K-1 then," Ramez mumbles. More sounds of paper rustling. "That's what the firm I recommend usually deals with, but I'm sure they've worked with other quirks. I'm going to send you the contact information for Taylor Kirsch, tell her you're one of my clients."

Anatoly rubs his face hard and then tells himself that if he can't trust his agent he's already screwed, in more ways than this.

Besides, he did research before choosing Ramez. Anatoly knew he wanted Nadimochka in his life, and that meant finding an agent with a good reputation.

And Anatoly's lawyer does sports contracts, not divorce, so he needs the advice. "There's another problem."

"Okay," Ramez says, his tone inviting Anatoly to continue.

"The last address Nadiya had for her husband when he went back to Russia was in St. Petersburg, but he's never answered any mail or calls. I went there in November, but they said he'd moved," Anatoly says. "When I called the number they gave me, the woman who answered said it was the wrong person and wouldn't give me any more info. So. I guess we need to figure out what we have to do to find him and make him agree to the divorce. Unless she can file it as no-fault since they've been living apart for a decade, but she hasn't yet because of the whole visa, jurisdiction thing, and I want to make sure this doesn't--"

"Slow down," Ramez interrupts.

"She should meet all the qualifications for a no-fault divorce here," Anatoly says forcefully. "I just--with the visa, I need confirmation from someone that knows for sure."

"All right," Ramez says, slower. "Okay. That is...a complicating factor. But," he adds. "Let me make a few calls, all right? I'll vet some firms that handle divorce, and we'll start from there."

Anatoly sits down heavily on the couch. "Okay. ...Thanks, Ramez."

Ramez makes a vague noise that's hard to interpret over the phone. Anatoly bites his tongue to keep from saying anything more.

He could. He could say something about how he would've brought this up sooner, if maybe Nadimochka had become pregnant.

Because even though Anatoly doesn't like to think about it because the logic seems too similar to Parser's in its coldness, a little part of why they've been trying to have kids for the past couple years, ever since they could afford them, is because a child with Anatoly would significantly improve Nadimochka's chances of being able to get a divorce. It'd significantly improve her chances of a green card getting approved, since she'd be the mother of a U.S. citizen as well as the wife of one.

It'd significantly improve the chances of Anatoly being able to finally quit worrying that some government official with a piece of paper could come in whenever they wanted, and destroy his home and deport the woman he loves.

(Anatoly's former sources within the Aces' organization have already been slowly and steadily drying up ever since he named them to the silent investor--retiring, moving down to other positions in the organization's developmental chain, or occasionally remaining with the club but not talking anymore--but he quit selling information cold as soon as he got off the phone with the man.

Nadimochka's visa should have been out-of-status as soon as she was laid off.

And someone, somewhere, must have that information on hand. Just in case Anatoly fails to stick to his side of the tacit deal.)

"I mean it," Anatoly says, instead of all that. "Thank you."

"That's what I'm here for," Ramez tells him, sounding sincere; but then he pauses. "And--Anatoly, I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but for the sake of your career--"

"I know," he says.

"Remember, professional sports is a conservative world," Ramez warns. "Especially hockey's old boy club. I know cohabitation isn't a big deal for you millennials, but adultery _is_ going to affect whether some GMs think you'll fit their club's culture. I'm just thinking about all your options in the future."

"I know," Anatoly repeats, because he does. "Thanks."  
  
  
Ramez gets back in touch with him next week, after the Aces have finally returned from the road to have their season opener. He gives Anatoly the contact information for a lawyer, and strongly recommends that the two of them wait until the season's over before taking any forward action on the divorce.

"Your brand took a bad hit just a few months ago, Anatoly," Ramez reminds him. "If you two weren't living together, I'd say to delay at least a year, let things calm down."

Anatoly tightens his grip on the phone; but then he makes himself stop. He already looked into Nevada's laws on this. "She's got the right to date, they're separated."

"Technical legalities and public perception rarely align," Ramez points out. "Let things settle down, Anatoly. You're not a problematic player, this'll pass soon."

Anatoly exhales and rubs his face with his free hand, and thinks sourly that he can never tell Parser he was right about how Anatoly should've watched his back more in Russia. Even if it's true. The last thing Parser needs is encouragement to be more paranoid about the media. "Okay."

"Good," Ramez says. "Maybe file it in late June. Everyone'll be too busy with the draft and trades and free agency to pay attention."

Anatoly exhales slower, and slumps back into the seat of his car. "...Okay. Thanks, Ramez."  
  
  
The cramped, shortened schedule is hell to play. They only have three homestands, and only one longer than three games. They only have six three-day breaks in the whole four months. Thirty-seven of their forty-eight games are scheduled every other day; twelve games are back to back; six games are matinees, which always screws up a lot of the boys' game-day schedules, Anatoly's included; and two of those matinees are part of back-to-back game days, possibly because their GM pissed someone off during scheduling. 'Hell' is being generous.

Anatoly wouldn't normally complain. But what's 'suck it up, you're a professional athlete, you signed up for this' acceptable when spread over seven months is a pretty harsh grind when compacted into four.

Case in point: it even gets to Parser.

Something does, at least. The grind, the travel, the lockout, the drop in the Aces' home game attendance levels, the leftover wariness from the previous coach, two of the rookies' partying (and there's a goddamn irony, ain't it?), the Hawks' out-of-the-gate point streak, some combination of these, all of the above. Anatoly doesn't know; Parser isn't the most talkative guy about what he's thinking.

Anatoly makes some educated guesses, when he confronts Parser about it after the man has an uncharacteristic break in image in front of the media after their loss to the Hawks. A couple must've been on the mark--the lockout, the lingering impact of the former coach--considering Parser freaks out at Anatoly too, before shutting down again.

Anatoly would like to believe Parser calms down after they talk because he processed some of the things Anatoly was trying to get him to see.

But unfortunately, he's pretty good at spotting when he's lying to himself.

Parser _does_ start to decompress more as the season goes on, though. So maybe....

But that doesn't start happening until after Colorado breaks the Hawks' streak. And after Parser breaks his own old points streak record. So probably not.  
  
  
(Anatoly will believe he was on the mark about a third cause--Chicago's streak--for a couple more years.

It'll only be reasonable. Kent Parson and Patrick Kane will be two of the top-ranking American-born players of their generation; some days it'll seem like if the league's media isn't talking about one of them, they're talking about the other.

And because Anatoly has and does and will continue to mentally compare his stats against Parser's, it'll seem perfectly logical that Parser and Kane must do the same. Everybody else already does.

It won't be until the middle of the 2014-15 season that he'll discover he was way off.

It'll come up at the New Years' Eve party Anatoly's throwing, because lots of things come up at those parties. People will be drinking; the Winter Classic on New Years' Day means there'll be no game for the Aces; and it'll be deep enough in the season that they'll either be riding high on their current standings or pissed off at the struggle to get a playoff spot. People will talk. Sometimes a lot, about things they normally wouldn't. Anatoly always hosts with an open bar for a reason.

"Aw, **helllll** no," Smith will snicker, when Anatoly mentions it while they're commiserating over how goddamn crazy Parson has gotten during this streak that's _still going_ for god's sake man are you aiming to outrank Modano? --Probably. "He'd never."

Anatoly'll raise an eyebrow. "Pretty sure Parser _obsessively tracks_ stats, Mitts."

"Naw, naw." Smith'll wave him off, then right himself when he teeters slightly on his perch on the sofa arm before he spills any of his whiskey. "He'd never, like. Fuckin'. What's the word. Deign," Smith says. "Not to Kaner."

Anatoly'll raise the eyebrow higher.

"I was--shit, givin' him shit about the All-Star Game or somethin'?" Smith will continue. "Had to be. Like the draft, blah blah, I was draggin' him about having to look good if he wanted to be picked ahead'a Kaner, '20 game point streak Parse, pff, that's small change'--and he just. Musta been drinking that night," Smith'll aside, shaking his head, "he just--sneered, smirked, you know, _that_ face, an' snorted and said 'That toxic asset.'"

Anatoly will know Parson hasn't been drinking since he hit ten games in his streak back in late October, because part of his current crazy is an extremely calorie-calculated diet.

Excepting that complete crash Parson had at the college party back in mid-December. But that was an outlier, and anyway fuck Samwell and fuck Jack Zimmermann and fuck that whole couple of days Anatoly still won't want to think about it.

But Parson also won't have been sleeping like normal lately. Not for a couple months.

Anatoly'll make a note of it; but he'll just shake his head. "Still chirping on reflex--"

"No, Vichy, no," Smith'll interrupt, teetering again as he waves Anatoly off once more.

Which will be the first time Anatoly will register that Smith might be more drunk than he thought.

Which won't matter to Anatoly. Smith won't be back from IR for another two days since the trainer wants him to do more rehab on his hand injury. And it won't be like Vegas is hurting for cabs.

But still. The way their linemate has so far kept from strangling either Parson or Anatoly over the years is by keeping his life steeply separated from theirs off the ice. So Smith being drunker than Anatoly thought will explain the very, very weird fact that he'll be talking to Anatoly about this at all, let alone telling Anatoly as much as he will.

"I **heard** 'im chirp," Smith will insist. "I heard him fuckin' rip Segs every fuckin' game after the trade. I never heard him fuckin'. Just. Dismiss a guy's existence before."

Smith'll shake his head slowly. "Like. Shit, son, you ain't fuckin' around with that 'Don't disgrace the Aces' shit. Okay." He'll push his bangs back from his face. "Oooookay. I'm gonna go close my tab, fuck. You just--sit there and try not to get recorded sayin' this shit."

Anatoly'll be pretty sure from Smith's tone that he's still in storytelling mode, but just in case, he'll mention, "It's an open bar, Mitts."

"Fuck yoooooou," Smith'll snort. "I ain't that drunk, Vichy. You turnin' into Parse now?"

"Alright," Anatoly will drawl, "you go drink some water, and then we're fighting. Those're fightin' words."

"I'll kick your ass!" Smith will cackle; but then he'll be too busy laughing for a little while to remember what he was talking about before. Anatoly won't readdress it.

The whole conversation will also finally reveal to Anatoly another facet of why Parson was able to leave their former teammate who almost overdosed for dead, metaphorically if not literally.

The Zimmermann parallel was obvious; but Anatoly will have forgotten to consider how Parser's loyalty to the Aces sometimes manifests itself in really fucked up ways.

Which, he should've known better. The Zimmermann parallel will be pretty obvious there, too.)  
  
  
(The first time Anatoly hears the rumor about why Parser actually skipped the combine, he thinks _So this is what livid feels like_.)  
  
  
Even if it's not the schedule, something about the season gets to Parser. And a portion of it is clearly the rookies' partying, because by April Parser's done that goddamn thing he does where he invites one of the boys out to a game so he can isolate them and talk about something he thinks they're doing wrong.

Granted, at least Parser's method of trying to force guys to be better doesn't involve humiliating them in front of others anymore. Not since Walczak called him out on it the first time Parser did it back during the Aces' 2010 playoff run.

But the problem is that Parser doesn't do this consistently. Sometimes he really does just want to hang out at a game. Or he figures some Aces need to put in face time again at one of Vegas's minor or college teams' games.

He doesn't even do it consistently across sports. Parser knows lacrosse, and knows the general basics of football and basketball and baseball and golf and hunting; but the only thing he cares about is hockey. So all other games are open season to be either entertainment or a trap.

And because somewhere along the line Anatoly apparently became one of the go-to buffers between Parser and the rest of the boys, sometimes he gets blindsided in the clubhouse by guys who're trying to figure out if Parser is pissed at their play lately or if he's just legitimately feeling the March madness.

Anatoly's on a bike in the workout room when Jeff comes in, talking to Robinson as he hip-checks the door open: "I'm fuckin' telling you, it's a bad--

"Vich!" Jeff yells when he spots him; and Anatoly pulls out his earbuds.

"It's bad when Parse goes 'I got tickets for a game, wanna go?' yeah?" Jeff demands.

"Is it a 51s game?" Anatoly asks. "He probably just wants you to put in an appearance with him, Fan Favorite."

"No," Robinson says, while Jeff's rolling his eyes. "It's the baseball, yeah. But he asked me."

"Mn," Anatoly replies.

He might as well be honest. Jeff likes the kid; and Anatoly trusts Jeff's judgment. Anatoly pauses the bike timer and says, "Yeah, if he asked you, it's probably bad. You drink too much, Robber."

Robinson bristles. "I fuckin' don't, I--"

"You fuckin' do, Robber," Anatoly replies. Jeff raises an eyebrow, then makes a 'guess we're doing this' face and heads over to the mats. "You get away with it 'cause you're young and you're good, but how many times've you come into practice with hangovers?"

"It was just a couple damn times!"

"It take you three drinks now to get the same buzz two used to?" Anatoly replies. "Or four?"

Robinson shifts on his feet like he's thinking about walking out, so Anatoly switches tactics.

"Look, I get it," he adds. "Energy line takes some real shit in its minutes. I drank when I played there too. More'n I should've. It'll be fine if you just--"

"What," Jeff interrupts, looking up from his stretch.

Anatoly just shrugs, because yeah, he didn't talk to Jeff about any of that. It was too humiliating: being the weak link on their line, being a guy his size who took five minutes to get gingerly out of bed the morning after games, being a shit fighter and a soft hitter, feeling himself teetering between barely hanging onto his bottom-six spot and dropping back down into the minors, tried and found wanting. Being a hockey player who couldn't handle blue collar hockey.

But that was the past. Now, his job's to play skill.

And part of Anatoly's skill set is going through any guy who tries to shut him down. Because as long as he keeps doing that well enough, the Aces don't fall behind on the scoreboard and their barn doesn't start having agitated fans yelling 'Hit somebody already!' because _they're_ the ones with the puck. That's always worth playing hard for.

Anatoly knows he's proven to the Aces he can be physical when he plays skill. So it's not as hard to talk about a few years ago, when he couldn't be trusted to be physical enough while grinding.

"I sucked there, you know that," Anatoly says, glancing over at Jeff.

"You--" and then Jeff falls silent, visibly torn between wanting to tell his best friend he wasn't total shit on fourth line and also not wanting to lie to his face. Anatoly snorts hard.

"We had some good games," Jeff finally settles on, and Anatoly snorts theatrically louder.

"Goffredo Scalfano, being _diplomatic!_ " he replies. "When hell freezes over, Satan's gonna put in an expansion bid and name the team after you."

"You are fucking shit at chirps," Jeff says witheringly, holding up a middle finger and then a second one for good measure.

"Luisa making you learn table manners, too?" Anatoly smirks. "Part of the deal for **settling** to marry ya? You gonna bring in your report card for etiquette class, show it off to the boys?"

Jeff comes after him. Anatoly manages to half-hop, half-vault the bars of the exercise bike before he gets headlocked, but it bangs back down hard enough on the ground that Jeff has to dodge it and he and Anatoly both pause to make sure the strength coach isn't going to come check out the noise.

Robinson's leaning against another bike, trying not to snicker and half-failing at it.

Once Anatoly's pretty sure Jeff's revenge will be coming later, and also that Ducey isn't about to show up and chew their asses out, he shoves Jeff back toward the mats and looks over at Robinson.

"I get it, all right?" Anatoly tells the rookie. "It'll be fine if you just get a handle on it. Rein it in."

Robinson rubs hard at his hair, still scowling a little, but not like before. "I didn't think it was that much."

"Enough to lose your minutes to a call-up," Anatoly replies. "Or lose your spot on the roster next season. You're here because you pushed somebody else out, you know how many guys're itching to do the same to you? You wanna be back in the minors? Or you wanna be here?"

Robinson's gritting his jaw; but then he makes himself quit and say, "Here."

"Good," Anatoly replies. "You're a good player, Pete. Just rein it in. It gets easier after a while."

Jeff looks over at Anatoly from the mats again at that; but he doesn't say anything this time.

"Alright," Robinson agrees. ". . . So this what I'm getting from Parse, too?"

"Dunno," Anatoly says, untangling his earbuds from how they got twisted up when he was dodging Jeff. "Probably something like it. At least he's talking to you about it," Anatoly adds, putting one of the buds back in and getting back on the bike. "He doesn't bother with guys he doesn't think are good enough to belong on the Aces."

"Jesus," Robinson mutters; and yeah, okay, it sounds assholish put that way.

It _is_ assholish--but so's business, and the Las Vegas Hockey Club is one. You put up the numbers and help get the wins, or you get traded or dropped to the AHL for someone else.

"Results-oriented business," Anatoly replies, putting in the other earbud. "That's life, rookie. Put up a game worth watching, or people'll go somewhere else. There's _always_ something else to lose tourists to."

"Robber, fun psycho Vegas nativist fact," Jeff muffledly calls from where he's stretching, and Anatoly's never going to forgive Showy for teaching him that phrase. "'Tourist' is shorthand for everybody else in the world."

"The world **is** a tourist to Vegas," Anatoly says proudly.

"Jesus," Jeff groans, "it's not a compliment, fucker." Robinson snickers again.  
  
  
Jeff catches up with him in the showers, slapping him on the shoulder. "/Hey. Vich. What you said earlier--/"

Anatoly makes a cutting motion with his non-razor hand. "/I got over it,/" he replies, before switching out of Italian because much as he appreciates it, it's not that big a deal. And no one else is in hearing range, anyway. "Natty rode my ass 'til I got better."

"...Okay," Jeff says, a little hesitant, which is a lot unusual.

Anatoly wonders if Jeff's learned about Sturluson, and hopes not. The more boys with deniability, the better. Anatoly's already only barely confident of keeping Showy's name out of the inevitable discovery.

He makes a note to ask later, out of the clubhouse. The season's been so bad they haven't done that couples' dinner Nadimochka talked with Jeff's wife about yet.

Anatoly makes another mental note to find out Nadimochka's upcoming schedule and to start working on a way to raise the topic without tipping Jeff off if he doesn't know. Jeff drapes an arm over his shoulders.

"Okay," Jeff finally repeats. "Glad you're okay, Anatoly."

Anatoly shifts the razor between his hands. "...Thanks."

"Yeah," Jeff says.

And then he half-smirks and adds, "Good thing she has you whipped, yeah?"

"Yep," Anatoly replies, before patting Jeff on the back. "It's great man, I think you're really gonna like it when you give in and just let Luisa do it to ya."

Aaaaand **there's** the headlock. 

Anatoly gets out of it eventually, mostly by threatening to kidney punch Jeff for real this time and partly because Jeff wants to ask something else.

"You don't like Robber, do you?" Jeff says, pushing himself up to sit on the sinks' counter.

"Get your sweaty ass off there, you're disgusting," Anatoly replies.

Jeff rolls his eyes. "Answer the question, Vich."

Anatoly shoulders him off the counter and swats away Jeff's punch to his arm. "I don't like anybody that dicks away their talent," he says. "You know that."

Jeff exhales and leans back against the counter, folding his arms. "Yeah, I know," he agrees.

"He's all right," Jeff adds. "He's just doing that stupid twenty-one-year-old shit. "

"I didn't," Anatoly says flatly. He spent twenty-one pushing himself to graduate early and then busting his ass in the ECHL to help the Wranglers become top seed and go to the Kelly Cup finals, trying to get noticed by scouts. He doesn't have sympathy for a drafted kid that got put straight into the AHL and is now drinking away the kind of chance Anatoly never got handed to him.

He's being an asshole from residual jealousy again.

Anatoly exhales and starts rinsing off his razor. "Am I that obvious?"

"You don't usually go straight for the balls, Vich," Jeff says dryly; but then he rubs his nose. "...Maybe he needed it."

Anatoly shrugs. "He's a good player," he says, because it's true. Robinson's a strong defensive forward; ever since Coach Moss settled on him as the center for Jeff and Kirby, the Aces' fourth line has been growing into a real checking threat instead of the group of pests and goons they used to get caricatured as. "If you say he's alright, he's alright. Maybe he's just one of those kids need a little kick in the ass to get on the right course."

"Better be," Jeff says; but he doesn't mean it the way Anatoly does. "He's all right. He'll get over it or I'll kick his ass for real, I like playing with him."

Anatoly snorts and boots him in the thigh. "Go fuckin' shower already, you reek."  
  
  
It's not a surprise when Parser goes after Tobin once he's done with Robinson. It's like both rookies are barely all right on their own and worse together. The Aces' boarding program needs a revamp.

It's not actually that bad. It's just that it's one more problem on top of all the existing stress of the abbreviated season, and it's a problem that wouldn't exist if the rookies would act like goddamn professionals.

Anatoly stops Tobin flat the first morning Tobin comes into the clubhouse looking like he has a hangover again after Parser's already talked to him. Before Anatoly even starts, Tobin promises that he's getting his shit together, it was just a slip and he won't do it again.

Anatoly tersely says he better, and then tells Tobin about the guy Parser manipulated the front office into waiving into the AHL in order to call up someone he saw who was better--a man who's still on the roster now, Anatoly adds, though he doesn't actually name Johns, since Johns doesn't know about the mechanics that got him his initial chance and he's been earning his place here ever since. "Get it together, Greg."

Tobin rubs the heel of his hand against his temple, staring down into his coffee mug.

"I fucked up, I know," he says, quieter. "I'm quitting, I promise. It won't happen again." 

So Anatoly--who grew up in Las Vegas during a period of massive upheaval and growth and its consequences, who took to heart young the lesson of his city that nothing is permanent and the only way to thrive is to be ready to blow up anything you build that's failed and start over, who would do anything for the people that he really cares about and therefore deliberately keeps that group very small, and who has so far managed to balance those two contrasts when it comes to his teammates--leaves it at that.

"Good," Anatoly says. "See you in practice."

"Uh-huh."

(Months later, during the cab ride to the ER, Anatoly will wonder whether if he'd just put a little more time and compassion in back then, maybe he wouldn't be here now, keeping Tobin conscious and talking, keeping fingers pressed to his wrist to make sure his pulse is still there.

 _Not my goddamn job_ , Anatoly will cut the thought off angrily, because it feels better to be angry than scared. Tobin is a goddamn adult, a professional athlete, who ought to be able to handle his own shit. If he can't, then that's his problem, not Anatoly's.

It'll be easier to tell himself that than to think about the fact that if one of Anatoly's friends had advocated for Tobin--the way Jeff did for Robinson--then Anatoly would have put in the time and compassion.

But no one did, except Robinson; and that was one step too far removed to count for Anatoly.)  
  
  
The cramped, shortened schedule is shit to play.

But the Aces have a good group of boys this year, who bounce back fast from the lockout. They have a good coach who knows how to use them. And their captain's on a mission to return them to the Cup finals, lockout be damned. The team pushes through to win the Pacific division.

They win the quarterfinals. They win the semifinals.

They lose the conference finals.

The Aces drop out of the playoffs, and the Blackhawks advance to the Stanley Cup finals.

And that's it for 2012-13.  
  
  
  
  
  
And then comes the season from hell.

There's nothing else to say about it. There were already problems in July, with whatever happened to the free agent they were supposed to get and couldn't.

Anatoly never learns the details of what went wrong; all his old sources have left or gone dead silent by now. But whatever happened, something about it spooked Parser bad enough that Parser actually talked to Anatoly about it--something he'd never done before.

Anatoly figures Walczak's told Parser _something_ about him; but after Anatoly says that he's got bupkis too, Parser drops the subject too quick for Anatoly to start determining what the other man knows. Which is kind of telling in its own way.

So, July: bad.

Training camp and preseason: the rest of the boys figured out there were problems in July and read the edginess in the front office, so, bad.

Parser goes into overdrive trying to counter for it and starts looking burnt out earlier than usual in the season--pretty goddamn ominous considering they're not technically **in** the season yet: also not so great!

At the start of preseason the head of PR quietly tells Anatoly that maybe he should be circumspect if any discussions about the reason behind his jersey number come up again, since--considering Congress's vote to defund DACA back in June--it could raise awkward questions about how long Anatoly's parents were undocumented immigrants in Canada and America before the U.S. granted them asylum.

Anatoly agrees that that would be for the best for both his career and the club because 1) what else is there to do if he wants to keep his place on the Aces' roster, and 2) Becky's phrase 'undocumented immigrants' is lot more respectful to Anatoly's parents than some of the other terms out there.

Goddamn 2013.  
  
  
And then came late October.

Late October, when the longest night of Anatoly's life becomes the night he spends talking Tobin down during the cab ride to the ER and then going to check on Parser instead of going home because _who yanks around a sick guy what the **fucking fuck was that shit**_ , only to learn Parser's past history of partying was apparently a lot less drinking and a lot more illegal drug use, oh holy god.

Late October, when Anatoly learns Parser really does trust him.

Because there's no way a man as protective of his privacy and past as Parser is would ever have told Anatoly so much blackmail-level stuff if he _didn't_ trust him.

Anatoly has no idea what to do with that information. He was starting to think Parser's never trusted anyone.

Or else he trusted one person; and then Zimmermann fucked it up for everybody else that came after him.  
  
  
And then came November.

November, when Parser compounds the fracture on his broken ankle by silently playing two more shifts on it because--Parser fucking _claims_ \--he didn't want to be pulled during a tie with a couple minutes left but really--because Parser would make the team buy any of the other boys who pulled that shit two beers each and then murder the guy for being stupid--but _really_ Parser does it because that's a sure-fire way to write new headlines for the Aces that aren't about the overdose.

November, when Parser willfully injures himself bad enough that he sabotages his chance to go to Sochi and play for America in the Olympics.

And he knew he was doing it.

He had to. Anatoly doesn't know any other way to take the comment Parser will make in January when Chazzer grills Parser on not being on the list. Parser had to know that staying in that game instead of leaving as soon as he was hurt would exacerbate the injury, extend his recovery time, and cost him that it-only-comes-once-every-four-goddamn-years chance to represent their country.

November, which Anatoly is never going to forgive Parson for, because watching one of your boys go down and hit his head on the ice and **not get up** is the worst nightmare to live through.

(Anatoly didn't process it at first. He thought Parser got knocked off his feet with the slide--but he'd get up, he always got back up.

It was the arena that realized it first, the fans sending up that sporadic mix of yelling and concerned noise that always followed a really bad uncalled penalty.

It was Chazzer who jumped the bench, drawing the refs' attention, and went after the guy that slid into Parser. That was when Anatoly looked away from the puck and saw Parser lying on the ice in the same spot. Not moving.

It was Jeff and Anatoly who jumped the bench next. It was Jeff and Anatoly who struggled to rip Chazzer off the Avs' player he was hitting with his gloves still on, before this could get any worse.

It was Jeff who let go as the benches cleared and went to help the rest of the boys shove the other Avalanche players away. It was Anatoly who helped the linesmen force Chazzer--whose anger management problems PR did a lot to downplay and keep under wraps because he was the Aces' best center and he'd been working to get it under control--back to the bench.

"You're fuckin' dead, Troy!" Chazzer snarled, yanking down the arm Anatoly'd wrapped around his neck to try and shut him up. "Hear me!? Dead!!"

"Shut the fuck up Prochazka, I'm mic'ed," one of the linesmen growled.

Chazzer yelled something else in Polish. They'd gotten close enough to the bench that Anatoly just got a better grip on Chazzer and shoved him bodily up against the boards. "Sit the fuck down and calm down," he bit out.

To the side they were carrying a stretcher out onto the ice.

"Ah fuck," Anatoly said in horror, turning around--and Parser still hadn't moved. The trainer was crouched by him on the ice and talking at him, but he was out. Gone.

 _Don't fucking think that, asshole_ , Anatoly snapped at himself. Chazzer started to push away from the boards, and Anatoly slammed a forearm against his chest reflexively. " **No**."

The head coach grabbed the collar of Chazzer's jersey. "Get in here and out of the medics' way, Jakub. Now."

By the time they got Parser strapped onto the stretcher and started carrying him off the ice, he was stirring.

But he was clearly hurt bad. Parser didn't even manage to give the crowd a thumbs up before they carried him down into the hall--and that was so contrary to the obligatory injured athlete script that under the noise of the players beating their sticks on the boards Anatoly heard the arena get even quieter.)

Anatoly's biggest known, recorded, pushed-on, and frequently discussed weakness is that he's a large guy who's a soft hitter: someone who, despite his size, doesn't make himself a big man on the ice.

Because all Anatoly's ever wanted to do in his life is play hockey professionally. Taking a concussion in his rookie year scared him more than he's ever admitted to anyone except Nadimochka; he's not sure he could live with himself if he hurt another guy bad enough that he took their career from them.

It's November 2013. It hasn't even been three years yet that the league's had a concussion protocol in place. It's barely been three years since Cooke's infamous hit to a Bruins center during Anatoly's first full year as a rookie; it'll be almost another three before the NHL is forced to release emails that show the league's then-disciplinarian gave Cooke a pass on it because "hitting is a vital aspect to everything our game is about" and anyway the center who was hit was the "biggest faker going."

I.e. you bring the shit done to you on yourself if you want to be a skill guy, and if you bitch about it you're a poser who doesn't have the balls to belong in the game.

Anatoly knows what sport he signed up for. He knows what kind of team he signed onto; his best friend is Jeff, the Aces' number one agitator. He knows what it requires for any entertainment business to succeed--or fail--in Las Vegas.

Anatoly knows exactly how much pressure is on him for trying to keep his ice time primarily by skill alone. He's up for it.

He works his ass off to keep improving his game, because there's no other option: one bad season, and that's it. Traded, sent down to the AHL, contract not extended--there's a dozen ways to lose everything he's worked for, and there's always somebody else grinding away in the minors ready to take it from him. And then good luck clawing his way back.

Especially when there's guys out there like Parser, who can throw away everything they've got and _still_ bounce right back from it.

Anatoly will never fully forgive Kent Parson for November.  
  
  
(The first time Anatoly heard the rumor about why Parser skipped the combine, he thought _So this is what livid feels like_.

And then comes November 2013, and Anatoly learns that no, when it comes to dealing with Kent "born with no goddamn common sense" Parson, there'll always be an opportunity to get angrier.)  
  
  
And then comes December.

December, when the Aces' standings continue to drop as they tally more and more losses while Parser's out on IR.

December, when they lose their permanent alternate captain for two weeks with a hip injury and the front office has to scramble to designate more temporary alts for the next games. They end up assigning a second A to Jeff and cycling the third one between some of the older veterans. Showy's already been an temp alternate since Parser got injured.

December, when the Las Vegas Aces have a four-game losing skid.

December, when Anatoly comes into the locker room after the first period of what's looking like game five of the skid: they're already down 2-0. The arena went dead after their first goal against, like the fans've lost all faith in them and were already prepared to watch another loss, if they even stayed at all.

Anatoly throws his helmet into his stall and snarls, " _We're not fucking doing this again!_

"It can't all be on one fucking guy!" Anatoly tells the boys. "Is this the Parson Aces or the _Vegas_ Aces?! Don't you fuckers have any goddamn _**pride**?!_ "

Someone thumps him on the shoulder a couple times, and then Showy squeezes it briefly before moving past him. Anatoly falls back to let him take over, yanking off his jersey and grabbing a water bottle.

"They're killin' us on offense," Showy says. "Fils, Stacker, we gotta get back faster. Chafe, kid, fuckin' force 'em into the boards," he adds to the call-up defenseman. " _Drive_ 'em. Intimidate. They are not coming through our motherfucking middle one more time."

"Communicate," the head coach says, coming into the room and pulling the door shut. "We got new faces this game, don't forget it. Show the other guys who you're covering."

Showy drops into his stall, squirting a water bottle over his head as Moss bites open a dry erase marker and starts sketching out battle plans for next period.  
  
  
January is a long, exhausting slog of nineteen games in thirty-one days, as the Aces try to get back in the running toward a playoff berth. The team's captain is back; their permanent alternate captain returns; all the temporary alts except Showy go back to being regular players.

January is the month Anatoly thinks Nadiya cheats on him.

For a little over two weeks that mesh up with one of the Aces' longer roadies, she starts working a lot of double shifts, covering for a friend who's sick but can't afford to just ask the pit boss for the time off. Or at least that's what Nadiya tells Anatoly, so he won't try to call or Skype her when she'll be at work. She texts him pre-game encouragement during her meal breaks, but Anatoly's usually in the middle of game day prep then. And then her friend gets better, and Nadiya's schedule goes back to normal.

Anatoly doesn't ask her about it.

If she did cheat on him, she came back. And if she didn't, if she really was just helping a friend and Anatoly pulls a jealous douche move and insults her integrity over it, he's going to seem a lot less like the man to stick with the next time someone flirts with her.

She's willing to stay in the U.S. for Anatoly; but she has a family and life she could go back to in Russia.

Keeping something is hard work. Losing it is easy.

(Anatoly will eventually address it, roundabout, in February. If he came that close to losing her, he'll need to know.

He'll come home from the clubhouse where he watched the final loss of the U.S. Olympic men's hockey team, and drop down heavily across the sofa. Nadimochka will be in the kitchen watering the potted herbs; she'll look up and nod when he came in, but won't say anything.

Anatoly will drape an arm over his eyes and ask, "/On the scale of one to ten, how much of a asshole am I to live with now?/"

Nadimochka'll make a stifled noise, start to say something, and then pause to consider. "/. . . Seven./"

"/How close to immediately answering 'Ten' were you?/"

"Some," she'll reply drolly. Anatoly will force a tired laugh.

He'll drop his arm and sit up a moment later. Nadimochka'll finish watering the plants and then check the leaves on the basil. "It has been a very hard season."

"That's no excuse," Anatoly'll reply.

"No," Nadimochka will say. "But it is a explanation." She'll tilt her head, back still to him. "Hard season. Bad taste in friends. Stress."

After a long pause, Anatoly will say, "Kent isn't--"

"/I believe that you see other sides of him, Tolyenka,/" she'll say. Nadimochka will turn to face him, folding her arms on the high counter. "/I only see the side that is a miserable man who worsens your life. That seems a very poor taste in friends to me./"

Nadimochka will deliberately use the adjective for miserable that means bad and inferior, not the one that means pathetic or sad, which will be one of the rare times she'll outright insult Parser to Anatoly's face.

Anatoly will exhale through his teeth and drag his fingers through his hair, and tell himself there's no point in arguing.

He'll have given up on trying to get Nadimochka and Parser to get along the same time he stopped trying to do it with Jeff and Parser. Parser will never disrespect his woman, and Nadimochka will be cordial to his teammate; Anatoly won't ask for the impossible.

And it won't be like he doesn't agree with her sometimes.

Nadimochka will lean away from the counter and come around to the sofa. Anatoly'll shift over to give her more room.

"/Somewhere in the middle is likely where the truth is,/" she'll concede, settling on the sofa and leaning against his chest.

If he were to be very, very painfully honest, Anatoly would acknowledge that that statement will be a lot more generous about Parser being a good man than the evidence will support.

But right now he'll only interested in looking at his life and his choices in regard to Nadimochka.

"I hope so," Anatoly will say quietly, circling his arms around her waist.

Nadimochka'll rest her head on his chest. "Me too."

"/I'm sorry I'm a hard man to be with lately,/" Anatoly'll say. "/...I hope it's only lately./"

"It's been a hard season," Nadimochka'll say again, pulling her legs up onto the sofa. "It will end. Next year will come. Life will change again."

Anatoly'll breathe out slowly before shifting them around more comfortably on the cushions. "Yeah," he'll agree. "Yeah, it will.")

January is the month it gets very, very clear there's a problem between Parser and Robinson.

Parser almost always keeps his personal opinion of anyone within the Las Vegas Hockey Club's organization subsumed under his 'good captain' front. It's why some of the boys freak out so much at those out-of-the-blue game invites: it's hard to read whether Parser respects a guy's abilities or not, right up to the point Parser pulls a behind-the-scenes manipulation to get them booted off the roster.

(Technically, Parser only did that once.

But it was the kind of cold business move that's impossible to forget when it's orchestrated by a teammate--by their own goddamned captain--and not by a GM.)

It's also why Parser works fine with guys he doesn't get along with. Parser and Jeff have scored a couple beauties on the power play because Parser communicates with guys no matter what he thinks about them off-ice.

The Aces' captain is always checking the pulse of the locker room: he doesn't shrug it off when the boys get pissed with each other, and he makes them work their shit out. He's always ready to spend extra time with someone who's going through a slump.

So when Parser ignores it as Robinson starts screwing up any time they're both on the ice, and continues ignoring it even as the mistakes get worse and start being talked about by the announcers and the media, it is _**really**_ obvious.

During January Anatoly ropes Chazzer into hanging back after practices more often to help Robinson work on his passing and plays. It creates the cover fiction that as veterans, Anatoly and Chazzer can help a sophomore center like Robinson work through his slump, even though all three of them--and the coaching staff--know it's not addressing the underlying issue.

But Robinson deflects the topic the couple times Anatoly starts it with him.

And Anatoly's still working out how to broach the problem to Parser without having Parser shut down on him.

And anyway they all still have to keep winning to have any chance of reaching the playoffs. Anatoly only has so much mental energy. He wants to concentrate on playing, not on a couple grown-ass men that need to goddamn deal with each other already.  
  
  
And then comes February.

February, when the U.S. Olympic men's hockey team gets stoned by Finland and doesn't even get the bronze. Anatoly watches the U.S. games at the clubhouse because it's not fair to Nadimochka to put up with him shouting at the TV that much, and anyway watching America versus Russia in their home would've just been asking for trouble.

February, when the Aces are doing bad enough that they regress to being sellers at the trade deadline, losing good guys to other teams because they just couldn't win more goddamn games.

February, when Jeff and Anatoly have to practically rip Parser off of Robinson because that shit devolved way more than any of them realized since Kent Parson never shows his real feelings until his back's against a wall.

February, when Anatoly has to admit that he doesn't know what to do with Parser and his mental issues, since Parser is so adamantly opposed to any kind of help.

February, when Anatoly can't figure out why he keeps counting as a friend a man who will never let anyone else in behind the wall that is Jack Zimmermann's legacy: the unscalable structure of Kent Parson's distrust and emotional disconnection and fucked-up loyalty to a former friend who probably never goddamn deserved it in the first place as far as Anatoly's concerned.

February was the worst part of the season.  
  
  
March is another grind of a month, as the Aces finally win enough to claw their way back up the standings into a wildcard spot and then have to fight tooth and nail every game after to hold onto it.

March is the month they'll probably look back at years later and go "Yep, that's when Parse declared a vendetta against Sports Central."

Anatoly's hoping it'll be funnier in the future, because it sure as shit isn't right now.

(The first time Anatoly heard the rumor why Parser skipped the combine, he thought _So this is what livid feels like_.

And then came November 2013, and Anatoly learned that when it came to dealing with Kent Parson there'd always be an opportunity to get angrier.

And then comes March 2014, when Anatoly watches Parser's face as he listens to the Sports Central commentators call Zimmermann the #1 NHL draft prospect before ripping him apart on national television; and Anatoly hopes that he will never in his life feel as much hate as Parser's expression holds in those minutes.)  
  
  
April, the Aces manage to keep their wildcard spot, go into the playoffs, and make it to the semi-finals even though it takes all seven games to defeat the Kings.  
  
  
May, they lose to the Aeros.

May, for the third year in a row, the Aces fall out of the playoffs before reaching the Cup finals.

May, Anatoly learns that apparently losing playoffs detonates Parser's sanity and turns him into a ticking PR bomb--and he only **finally** learns it this season because _Smith is a goddamn asshole_ who was hiding it.

And that's it for 2013-14.  
  
  
After over a year, Nadimochka's case has wound far enough through the Nevada court system that it accepts she's made all reasonable efforts to serve her husband a divorce complaint, even under the extenuating circumstances of his being AWOL somewhere in Russia. Since they had no children, she's requested no alimony, and she's forsaken any claim to shared property in St. Petersburg that the court wouldn't've had the jurisdiction to rule on anyway, the judge signs the final decree of divorce; and Nadiya Nikolaevna Byerozkin is finally legally an unmarried woman again as far as the United States is concerned.

That afternoon, Anatoly contacts the lawyer his agent recommended to start filing the foreign-citizen fiancée paperwork. The next day, he goes by his parents' house to pick up his mother's engagement ring that his mom ordered him to use when he finally proposed.  
  
  
  
  
  
And then comes the 2014-15 season.

The Las Vegas Hockey Club gets some decent picks in the draft. It trades their resident toxic player Greg Tobin to the Schooners' organization in exchange for Seattle's own problem asset in the AHL. The club releases yet more older players to free agency. The Aces officially make Showy a permanent alternate captain, recalibrating the power dynamics in a now-even-younger locker room. Rumors start resurfacing about the league expanding again to open a thirty-fifth team in Quebec City.

Parser proves that he does not and never will have any goddamn sense when it comes to Jack Zimmermann.

But that comes later.  
  
  
Anatoly comes into the Ice Center a week before training camp like usual, to skate with the new signees and trades and some of the boys from the farm team who're really out to crack the Aces' roster this year.

He finds Parser out on one of the rinks already and going through a bucket of pucks. Like usual.

But it's not Parser's normal sticks behind the bench--it's a bunch of different ones. For a second Anatoly wonders just how many guys showed up here at insane o'clock that Parser could steal so many twigs; and then he spots the name on one of them, and realizes Parser's practicing with the sticks he got at All-Stars again.

Which Parser usually doesn't do until deeper into the season. Or at least actually _in_ the season.

Factor in Parser's recent stunt to get both Anatoly and Walczak in the same place at the same time to ask them what the hell the front office was thinking during offseason....

Anatoly climbs over the bench and hits the ice. Parser drops another puck and then backhands it to him.

Anatoly catches the pass and practices toe drags for several seconds, getting into a smooth rhythm while Parser skates over to his wheelhouse in the left circle. When Anatoly sends the puck back to him, Parser one-times it hard into the net.

"How long've you been here?" Anatoly calls as he skates over to the net to collect more pucks.

"A while."

"So, six a.m.?" Anatoly replies. "Five? Climbed in through a window at three because who needs sleep when there's practice to do, that's what naps are for?"

"We're bleeding vets," Parser says bluntly, skating over to grab the bucket. "I'm not repeating that wildcard bullshit this year."

 _You better not repeat that ankle bullshit or I'll kill you myself_ , Anatoly refrains from saying. "Three a.m. it is."

"Har har." Parser lines up another slap shot, only to whiff it when the stick breaks.

Anatoly snorts and herds the pucks he's collected over to the right circle.

He works on his shot as Parser picks up the broken pieces, retrieves a new twig from the bench, and then returns to the left circle and immediately breaks the stick again on his next shot. Anatoly raises an eyebrow. "Parser, it ain't **that** bad."

"That son of a bitch," Parser says in grudging admiration, examining the broken end. "Did he give me a fragile one on purpose?"

" _You?_ " Anatoly replies. "I can't imagine. Why would anyone _ever_ want to be a dick to Kent 'chirps like a songbird' Parson?"

"In rare form already, Vichy," Parser drawls.

"Honing trash talk is an important part of offseason conditioning."

"Excellent work ethic. You're gonna be a great example in the dressing room."

"Yep," Anatoly agrees. "'That pigeon-level chirp ain't gonna work on Parson, rookie. Stand back and watch a master.'"

Parser snorts as he collects the stick's blade. Anatoly waits for him to get away from the net and adds, "Who sniped you?"

"Lesser Tavares."

"I can't _**imagine**_ ," Anatoly repeats, really slathering on the sarcasm this time. Parser smirks as he skates toward the bench.

Last time Anatoly took that bait he had to sit through a too-long lecture on Johnny Tavares and the Buffalo Bandits' lacrosse team and 'I know you're a desert hermit, but they have Internet here, Vichy' when he ripped Parser because he thought Parser had accidentally called the Isles' Tavares a lacrosse player; but still. "How have you not been bumped off backstage at All-Stars already?"

"I seem like a great guy if you talk to me off the ice," Parser answers, dumping the broken pieces over the bench rail. "Everybody's all 'Alright, I guess he's just a dick in games. Guess it's just hockey talk.'"

Parser looks over his shoulder at Anatoly as he grabs another stick, grinning. "Dumbasses."

Anatoly chokes on a laugh and then has to brace his stick on the ice as he cackles. "Oh my god, you fucker."  
  
  
Seattle's former problem asset doesn't turn out to be as bad a trade as Anatoly worried, personality-wise.

It was a legitimate concern. Lee's a puck-moving left-handed defenseman who's still young enough it was reasonable for him to be percolating in the AHL. The fact that the Schooners were willing to hand over a player with potential like that in return for a bottom-six center who publicly ODed was a little terrifying. Parser tried to pump Anatoly and Walczak for info for a reason.

Fit-wise, though, the Aces look like they got the short end of the trade.

Anatoly half-remembers games that the Sovereigns played against the Schooners' own AHL affiliate, and Rock Springs always played a heavily structured game. Lee flounders through the first day of training camp, blatantly struggling with Coach Moss's up-tempo, high-risk system that makes the most of the Aces' offense while also putting insane pressure on their defense when those risks backfire.

Day two isn't much different, except that Parser starts splitting up his time screwing around with a puck during breaks on the ice. On day one of camp, Parser was doing it solely with a left-winger from the farm team, some kid who joined after Anatoly's time.

On day two, Parser starts dividing his time between the winger and Lee.

In previous camps, Anatoly watched Parser single out Smith until the man was set as the default left-wing on their line. He belatedly realized the extended effort Parser went through grooming him back in 2009-10, until Anatoly became Parser's default center.

He recognizes what Parser's doing with Catalano by the second break of day one: pretending to be dicking around with a puck, while actually pushing the winger to show off his skills beyond what the kid's managed to do in the ice time he's been given.

So on day three, before practice even opens, it isn't a surprise when Showy skates to a stop by Anatoly and says, "I need you to do the thing where you rant about how Vegas's multitude of entertainment options means we have to play super exciting hockey to compete, and let forwards run amok and Scrappy punch dudes twice his size."

Anatoly slugs him in the arm. "To Lee?"

"I like how you're asking like there's even a question here, pal," Showy says drolly. "I been here since Parse's rookie year too."

"Sheeeeze." Anatoly braces his stick on the ice. "All right, all right."

"I think Parse's right about him," Showy says, stretching his arms above his head before pinning his stick perpendicular behind his back. "We played some three-on-three before camp. Any time I tried to charge the net, that fucker was right there taking the puck from me and carrying it back to Chazzer."

Anatoly frowns. "When was that?"

"Too goddamn early, that's when," Showy replies. "Wednesday? That day you left me fuckin' hanging and didn't show up 'til afternoon."

The day after Anatoly and Nadimochka had spent a week thinking she'd finally become pregnant, before her period came late.

They'd both drunk more than they should've that evening; and the next morning Anatoly just couldn't bring himself to leave their bed and deal with his hangover and bitter disappointment until it was late enough that if they didn't get up and make breakfast Nadimochka would have to head out to her shift at the casino hungry.

Anatoly had taken care of the eggs and sausage and toast while Nadimochka stayed in the bathroom way longer than normal. He'd aggressively ignored his phone every time it pinged with a text, because there was actually more to fucking life in the end than fucking hockey.

"Ah," is all Anatoly says, because he hadn't talked to anyone about any of that. He didn't want to jinx it; Nadimochka had already miscarried once with her previous man.

"Yeah, 'ah,'" Showy drawls. "I ain't forgettin' that, by the way."

"Let it go," Anatoly replies, a little sharper than he meant to. Showy looks over. "--Some personal stuff came up."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Anatoly says, knocking absently on his stick even though he knows there's no wood in there. "So you think knowing why we play this system will help Lee?"

Showy gives him a look that very clearly says 'Are you really trying to pull so piss-poor a subject change on me.'

"Let it go, Showy," Anatoly repeats. "Alright?"

"All right," Showy says after a moment. He lets his arms fall and looks back up the rink, rapping the butt of his stick absently on the ice. "...Maybe. You do your True Believer schtick, it might shift his mental gears."

"Alright," Anatoly agrees. "Give it a few more shifts, see if Parser gives up on him?"

"No chance," Showy says. "He already had me sizing him up pre-camp like Nino last year. Pretty sure he scoped--"

Moss blows his whistle to call everyone to attention. Anatoly and Showy drop the conversation and head over.

The two of them don't get together again until the first significant break in practice, though Anatoly notices Showy talking with Walczak at the bench and with Parser on the ice during a few pauses.

"Sooner the better on that rant, Vichy," Showy says when Anatoly skates over and bumps himself up against the boards next to where Showy's practicing toe drags.

"Pragmatism isn't a rant."

"Whatever you gotta tell yourself, pal."

Anatoly rolls his eyes; but before he can respond, Showy continues: "Just do it so we can play 'Did Parse go scout a sixth fucking time?' and he cuts me a break. Like look, winger, I know you think hockey's just scoring goals and you don't bother with the cerebral, _defensive_ side of it--"

"I goddamn dare you, say that to his face."

"Like I didn't fuckin' already," Showy replies, and Anatoly sniggers.

Showy exhales through his teeth before slapping the puck hard to the other side of the ice. "Just do it so I can spend my time teaching **another** guy this system since Heit fuckin' can't."

Which is the first time Anatoly's heard Showy insult the defense assistant coach outside of the high-alcohol-consumption outlier of Anatoly's New Year's Eve parties.

"Zach," Anatoly says carefully, because they're right on the glass at the public practice rink where anybody can just come in. "The goddamn beat reporter's like five feet away."

Showy mutters something indistinguishable under his breath and starts to skate off. Anatoly whacks his shin with his stick.

"Look," Anatoly says when Showy glares at him over his shoulder, "let's do dinner this week. I'll get Jeff on board, make it a whole family thing. Emiri and Izzy can play together, Natty and Rae and Luisa can commiserate on how they never should've married hockey players, we can talk. Yeah?"

Showy exhales slower, but turns back to face him. "All right," he says, wiping off his visor. "Yeah. Sounds good."

"Good," Anatoly says. "We'll--"

The coach blows his whistle again. Anatoly starts to skate over to the man, but at a slower pace; Showy matches it. "We'll figure out a time at lunch or something, alright?"

"Yeah."  
  
  
The Aces' goalie gets another concussion, in a preseason game of all goddamn things.

Sturluson gets a one-game suspension for slashing the Schooners player who tripped over Burival in the net, and he's lucky it was only one--Sturluson broke his stick on Fearn's helmet.

The front office assigns Jeff a temporary A again until Sturluson's allowed back. A chain reaction goes down through the club's organization as they call up more goalies from the Sovereigns, who have to call up goalies from the ECHL team, who probably want a stiff drink because this doesn't bode well for the coming season.

Box becomes main goalie again while Burival's out on IR, and it gets clear real fast that he's here to take the position permanently.

Anatoly had his suspicions in training camp. Box came in after obviously busting his ass conditioning during offseason. He'd been starting goalie the final couple months of last season while Burival was recovering from a prior concussion, and he was the Aces' goalie for the majority of last season's playoffs.

The coaches already knew Box could handle long stretches of responsibility--and now a golden opportunity got thrown in his lap before the regular season even started. Any man worth his jersey would seize that.

It also doesn't hurt that Burival's thirty-five, and Box is twenty-three.

Anatoly's coming up on thirty in a couple years himself. He understands how that math works.

It _also_ doesn't hurt that Box methodically and repeatedly goads Parser into helping him improve in a way that Burival never had the insanity to try.

The first practice Box takes over starting duties, Anatoly hangs back on the ice afterward to work on face-offs with Chazzer again. He wins this time; he's chirping Chazzer over it as they head off the ice when Box yells something loud in dialect-heavy French.

That wouldn't've stood out much, except for how Parser stops in the middle of climbing over the bench and turns to stare at Box.

Box points his stick at Parser and calls something else about--his shot and wrists? Goddamn Quebecois; even a minor in French Studies never prepared Anatoly enough for them. He's never sure if he's mishearing words or just unfamiliar with a colloquialism. Parser tilts his head slightly and raises an eyebrow.

And then he climbs back over the rail and skates toward Box, grabbing a bucket of pucks from one of the rookies heading off the ice as he does.

Slate glances at Parser, and then his hand, and then the bench, and then apparently decides 'Nope, fuck it' and keeps on going.

Chazzer breaks against the bench before bracing his elbows on it to watch the show. "The hell's my phone when I need it?"

Anatoly leans a forearm on the rail and side-eyes the goalie coach, who's watching Box and Parser with folded arms and resigned disbelief. "You should get a surgical implant already."

"I looked into it during offseason, but the science isn't there yet," Chazzer drawls as Parser sets down the bucket a distance from Box's net and fishes out a puck. Anatoly snickers.

There's a clomping noise behind them before Smith throws his arms over Anatoly and Chazzer's shoulders. "Vichy Vichy Vichy _the fuck's he saying?_ "

"How did you--" because Smith has a sixth sense for shit-talking, presumably. Anatoly shrugs his arm off. "Dunno."

"Fuck you, don't front, you know French."

"Yes," Anatoly says dryly, raising his voice just enough. "Quebec-ese is French stuck in a blender on puree with a bunch of ridiculous colloquialisms."

"/I can hear you, motherfucker!/" Box yells over from the net. Parser seizes the distraction and rockets in a snap shot top shelf past Box's head.

Box gives him a slow stare. Parser half-smirks and says something in faltering French.

"What?" Box calls derisively in English, cupping his glove to his helmet by his ear. "Was that a chirp? I couldn't tell through that American mush-mouth accent, you need a second try?"

Parser picks another puck up out of the bucket.

Box slaps his stick hard on the ice and settles back into the cage, dragging Parser with a couple more insults in French for good measure.

"It's like watching a man sign his own death warrant," Smith says in awe.

Chazzer chuckles. Anatoly shakes his head slowly.

The goalie coach mutters something about rearranging the masseuse schedule. "One of you boys let Aaron know I'm going to be late because of these dumbass motherfuckers," he tells them. "In those words, please."

"On it!" Smith salutes, before heading out to find the head coach.  
  
  
During preseason, Parser changes a slew of his usual habits. For the rest of September and a week into October, half the time Anatoly can't find the man where he usually would, until Parser finally settles into a new routine as the season opens.

At first, Anatoly figures it's because of his bang-up start to the season. Parser had a goal in every single preseason game he was in; and even though those will never count in his record, Parser's also been picking up at least one point in every game since their opener on the road. You start a streak like that, you don't fuck with your habits--even if you _supposedly_ **aren't** superstitious, like Parser claims.

Anatoly doesn't realize Parser's new routine means he's never around Lee unless more of the boys are in the room too, until Showy mentions it.

At this point Anatoly's pretty sure the rumor that Seattle traded Lee out because he's gay is bullshit, considering that Lee seems to be hooked up with a different chick any time he talks in the locker room and that in under a month he's probably been responsible for at least 0.05% of all swipe rights in Vegas.

Anatoly's still on the fence on whether the Schooners implied Lee was gay and didn't fit their club's culture in order to conceal a bigger problem of Lee sleeping with his teammates' women.

That's what a couple of the boys've started to suspect. But so far no one's seen any evidence of Lee misbehaving around anyone's wife or girlfriend. And Nadimochka said Lee didn't seem like a creep to her when she met him; and Anatoly trusts her judgment.

Still, something about the kid irritates him.

Anatoly just can't determine what. For all Lee's sleeping around, he's committed in practices and workouts, and he's been fairly reliable in games. He's got some clear talent as an offensive d-man, but he's not obnoxious about it. He's not loud, he's not bratty; he mostly keeps to himself, but not like he's a loner or thinks he's better than the rest of the boys. Anatoly ought to be fine with him.

Lee can't be gay unless he's _really_ committed to hiding it on a new team, and anyway, Anatoly doesn't care about that. He's friends with Parser, for godssake.

And after five seasons, it's impossible to ignore that Parser's still single.

He's had hookups, sure. There was that older woman the boys all ripped him for the summer after they won the Cup; there was definitely _some_ one while Parser was in Switzerland, but every single pic Parser posted back then had Parser and said person behind the camera, not in front of it.

There's been a handful of dates with women that one guy or another's tried to set Parser up with, none of which went anywhere. There were all those hookups Parser implied he was getting back when he was a rookie, most of which the boys assumed were 10% reality and 90% bragging bullshit.

But considering how Parser abruptly quit even implying he was getting laid, let alone actually showing up anywhere with a woman, as he focused on leading the Aces in their chase for a second Cup, Anatoly's started retroactively questioning whether **any** of those club hookups were real.

Or if they were just Parser trying to figure out how fit in. How to come off like just another straight guy in a testosterone-high sport.

After five seasons, Anatoly can't imagine being surprised if Parser eventually comes out as gay or bi or some other type of queer or whatever, other being surprised that a man as protective of his private life and as focused on hockey as Parser is would bring it up at all.

Nor would it be surprising to find out some of those old, speculative rumors about him and Zimmermann were true.

Frankly, it would explain how an failed addict of a prospect from five years back still has so much goddamn power over Parser.

But on the other hand....

There's also the possibility that the reason Parser's so protective of his private life is because he's been putting up with those rumors since he was a teenager, and he's sick of them.

It'd explain why he never wants to talk about dating anybody. For all Anatoly and the rest of the boys know, maybe Parser's still in a long-distance relationship with whoever he was seeing in Switzerland. Maybe it's even a woman. 

It'd explain how Parser went from a teenager in Juniors who always seemed to be leaning against or sitting on or having an arm draped over someone's shoulders in photos, to being a man in the NHL who rarely touches his teammates beyond fist bumps or elbowing or tolerating being caught in a headlock.

That physical aloofness of Parser's is the main thing call-ups and trades and new guys have to adjust to when they come into the Aces' locker room. It stands out as unnatural; it's hands down the biggest reason guys sometimes take away the impression that Parser's one of those diva skill guy assholes.

Anatoly's wondered sometimes how Parser isn't aware of it, when he works so hard to be a likable guy in every other way.

But if Parser **is** aware of it, and doesn't care, because he's dead-set on never having to deal with any more rumors about whether he's gay--that'd explain a lot.

Throughout October, Parser keeps his new routine. Anatoly keeps a close eye out for a week and confirms that it keeps Parser from absolutely ever being alone anywhere at all with Lee; and he thinks to himself _Yeah, this ain't great._  
  
  
After a lot of back and forth between the front office and the Aces' team doctors and Burival himself, Burival returns to the roster in late October.

Coach Moss makes him the starting goalie for two games, during which Burival gives up seven goals total, one of them leading to an Aces' loss. And then Box is the starter again.

Which means all the boys get to live through the godawful awkwardness of a locker room transitioning from one former mainstay lead goalie to a new, younger guy in the cage. Right during the season.

It's not all the boys, technically. Anatoly and Showy've had to do a lot more of the work reading the pulse of the locker room these first couple months, because Parser's been slacking off on it.

But then, Parser's been busy breaking every goddamn point streak record for American-born players and then going after the Canadian-born ones, so he's been preoccupied.  
  
  
During the Las Vegas Aces' seventh game in November 2014, Kent Parson turns Olczyk and Kessel's tied point streak record of 18 games into a three-way tie.

The Aces' eighth game of November, Parser resets the record for American-born players to 19.  
  
  
The day after the NHLPA sends an email to all the teams' doctors recommending changes to hopefully quell the mumps outbreak in the league, Showy comes early into the hotel ballroom reserved for team lunch and says, "Hey, so."

"Goddammit," Anatoly says wearily, putting down his knife and fork and kissing his fifteen minutes of solitude goodbye, because he knows that tone.

"Yep," Showy agrees, pulling out a chair across from him and setting down his plate. "So apparently Parse corralled Lean in the stairwell to make sure he's using protection when he fucks around, because 'I don't want to deal with an STD in the locker room, this mumps shit is bad enough.'"

Anatoly braces his elbows on the table and rests his face in his palms.

"So I got to spend ten minutes convincing Lean that despite our fearless leader's example, celibacy is not _actually_ a requirement during the season," Showy finishes. "Can't argue it's working for Parse, but speaking for myself, **my** wife'd kill me. Or figure out they sell better dicks than mine down at the store."

" _Why_ ," Anatoly asks muffledly. "Just. How the fuck does he think this is normal, I don't understand."

"Pretty sure Parse's eschewed normalcy this season," Showy comments, silverware scraping on his plate. Anatoly resists reminding him that it's 'normality' because he knows Showy's doing it on purpose to bug him. "It's the latest step to reaching his final form as a true hockey robot. Next season, one exhibition game'll just be him and Sid fighting to the death to determine who's really 'The Next One.' Gretzky's there to declare the survivor his successor, and then immediately ascends into the heavens to take his place among the hockey gods. Everyone's like, a little surprised? But not really surprised."

"Oh my god," Anatoly snerks, dropping his hands as he shakes with suppressed laughter.

"I'm telling you, pal. This streak's proof," Showy replies, pointing at him with the fork. "You saw that fuckin' box of wires he sleeps with. We're gonna have a team mechanic next year alongside the doctors."

"God." Anatoly rubs his face. "It's only November, I can't do seven more months of this."

"Lean needs to push back already," Showy shrugs. "I keep tellin' him, 'You can't do this beta male shit with Parse, he'll _eat you alive_.'"

 _That's it_ , Anatoly realizes. That's what irks him about the kid.

"Keh," Anatoly mutters; and Showy shrugs again.

"He needs to sock Parse or something next time he pulls this crap," he says. "Force a reset."

"Yeah, that worked so great for you," Anatoly drawls, because Showy's drama major and love of musicals attracted a _lot_ of comments from other teams during his rookie year, until Showy took Sturluson's advice and just began punching guys in the temple any time they obliquely called him a fag. It took him three years of Lady Byng-level gentlemanly play from that start to shake his rep with the referees and the defensive coach.

"It _did_ , I agree," Showy says sagely. Anatoly rolls his eyes.

"He can't fuckin' punch out Parser," he replies reasonably.

"Yeah, yeah." Showy exhales and looks back at his food. "He's gotta do _something_ soon. As long as Parse's mentally classing him as a sub, this shit's not gonna stop."

Anatoly frowns. "A what?"

"A--"

Showy makes a choking noise, and then starts laughing fit to beat a hyena.

"You _vanilla motherfucker!_ " he cackles, slapping a hand on the table. "Fuckin' tell me you thought I meant a sandwich, I **dare** you."

"Shut up, fuck you," Anatoly says, because being chirped is worse when he doesn't know why.

Showy just laughs harder, bracing his forearms on the table. "You're never livin' this down pal, you are **so dead**."

"Shut up!"

" _Never_ ," Showy crows, and Anatoly shoves him in the shoulder. Showy whacks him in the forearm for it.

"What the hell," Jeff says when he comes into the room a little later, after Anatoly's managed to wrestle Showy down to the ballroom's carpet.

"Help," Anatoly says tersely, because it's really hard to pin a guy as strong as Showy while also trying not to do any damage right before a game that the trainer would have his ass for.

Jeff puts his plate and silverware down on one of the tables and then comes over and sits on Showy's legs, because Jeff is the best goddamn friend ever. Showy manages a "Fuck you too, Scrappy!"

"So what'd you do?" Jeff asks Anatoly casually.

"Hey," Anatoly replies in offense. Showy starts sniggering again.  
  
  
During the Las Vegas Aces' penultimate game of November 2014, Kent Parson ties Sidney Crosby's point streak record of 25 games.

The Aces' final game of November, Parser beats it.  
  
  
The first week of December, Parser keeps on lighting it up. He closes a Central roadie by hitting 28 games in his streak to join a six-way tie with Coffey, Lafleur, Lemieux, Gretzky, and Yzerman; and then Parser opens a three-game homestand by solidifying his place in the top ten point streaks of NHL history as he extends his own to 29.

During the rest of the homestand, Parser ties up with Sundin and Gretzky at 30 games, and then surpasses them by extending his streak to 31.

That last game, the Aces' arena got louder and louder as the jumbotron listed the official extension of Parser's streak with his assist in the second period and the extra coup de grace of his goal in the third, until Anatoly almost felt sorry for the Preds fans sticking around.

Parser's so high on adrenaline afterward that even when the boys have to go straight from postgame to the plane to Providence, he still won't sleep.

Anatoly's going for a piss while they're somewhere over the mass of the Midwest when he finds Parser pacing back and forth in the tight space at the end of the plane and watching a muted Isles game on his tablet, even though it's past midnight and the Preds were hitting him hard during the game's first thirty minutes in an effort to shut him down and break his streak.

Anatoly bodily hauls Parser back to his seat and tells him to stay there and go to goddamn sleep already or he's going to duct tape him into it. Six of the boys stir enough to immediately volunteer to help Anatoly do it, god bless 'em.  
  
  
On Friday, Parser kicks off the Aces' five game roadie with two more assists, an extension of his streak to 32 games, and a near fight with Mashkov that ends up bruising Mitts' wrist when a stick catches it above the glove as Mitts is dragging Mashkov away from the kerfuffle around Parser and St. Martin behind the Falcs' net.

(Anatoly's willing to buy that Box's goading Parser into shooting for real at him in practices is partially contributing to Box's career-best GAA this season, because frankly if a guy _wants_ that wrist shot coming at his body then he's either onto something or suicidal.

But the downside is that weeks and weeks of exposure to French insults has been helping Parser either remember some he'd forgotten or just learn new ones.

Combine that with Parser's frequent habit of chirping the friends of players that he's trying to manipulate into taking penalties instead of the players themselves--just to piss them off more--and it's gotten nerve-wracking to be on Parser's line at times this season.

Smith's workouts have increasingly focused on core and upper body strength since late October, when Parser's streak hit ten games and other teams' strategies against the Aces started shifting from including a component of 'Give Parson no time, no space, no possession' to including a component of 'Take the penalty if you have to.')  
  
  
On Saturday, the Aces arrive in Boston in the late evening. The boys all ate dinner before the flight; but it's too early for most of them to want to go to bed. Anatoly sets up his room for cards and dice.

Parser eventually shows up from his and Showy's jaunt around town in that Porsche--and Anatoly has not yet chirped him for renting that hybrid abomination of a sports car a quarter as much as he intends to--though Parser stays in his room for a few minutes instead of joining the rest of the boys in Anatoly's.

"What's the hold up?" Catalano calls, leaning back from his seat on one of the beds where he's shuffling cards to peer through the half-open connecting door to Parser's room.

"I gotta ask, Cat," Okori says dryly from where he's hanging his suit jacket over the relocated chair, "do you _like_ losing money? Because penny slots would be cheaper."

"I got a system," Catalano replies, shuffling the cards once more with a loud snap.

"Is it 'losing money'? Because that's all you've been doing."

"Have some faith, Korsy, damn," Catalano replies, before tilting more toward the door and yelling in Spanish.

Burival, sitting further back on the bed, shakes his head. "He won't understand that."

"I know, that's what'll piss him off enough to quit being a coward and come play," Catalano replies, raising his voice to call the last words at the door again. Burival glances at the heavens with a faint smile.

"Alright already," Parser replies. He comes into Anatoly's room, now in street clothes.

"Would it kill you to wear a suit longer than half an hour, Parser?" Anatoly asks. "Will your system go into shock without your daily dose of plaid?"

"It's a serious medical condition," Parser deadpans, sitting on the bed by Catalano as the younger man hands the deck back to Burival to cut it. "You shouldn't mock it. You gonna make fun of Scrappy's dairy allergy next?"

Jeff gives Parser a silent middle finger from where he and Anatoly are wedging the table between the beds to make space for the street craps.

"Wrong direction Scrappy, he's in front of you," Parser replies, and Anatoly tells Jeff "Don't you drop this on my foot just to double flip him off."  
  
  
Hours later, Anatoly wakes up when his phone vibrates with a text around 1:30 a.m.

He makes a note to find whichever of the boys hid it under his pillow and punch them, and then fumbles it out to unlock it because the limited amount of people that have his number wouldn't be texting him this late the night before a game without a good reason.

 _If I kill that emotional trainwreck of a fucking human being I've been playing cards in your room all night and I'm still there._ Showy's sent.

Anatoly sits up immediately, because Showy **never** texts in normal English. _What's happened?!_

The typing icon appears and disappears for several moments before Showy sends _Nothin_

_turn off ur phone_

_Are you kidding me?_ Anatoly replies. _What's going on?_

 _trust me vichy_ Showy sends. _turn it off_

_Answer me, Short!_

_No._ Showy replies. _It'll get dealt with in the morning. Turn off your phone and go back to sleep_

Anatoly's in the middle of typing _Are you seriously trying to pull this shit on me, you bastard?_ when Showy adds _that's what i'm doin_

_so u can send that but i won't c it_

Anatoly cuts off his sentence mid-word and sends it as-is with several middle finger emojis for punctuation.

Showy doesn't reply, like promised; but Anatoly gets the tiny vindication of watching the text bubble change color to prove he saw it.  
  
  
On Sunday, the captain of the Las Vegas Aces finally returns to the team's hotel a couple hours before dawn on a game day after having pictures and video posted online of him drinking at a frat party.

At Jack Zimmermann's school.  
  
  
Anatoly wakes up from his doze when he hears water running in Parson's room.

The hotel clock says it's after 3 a.m. The team video meeting's in six hours; breakfast is sooner.

"Motherfuck," Anatoly calls, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, trying to clear his head. "You finally back?"

The water gets quieter.

"Go to sleep," Parson replies, in that empty, flat voice that immediately rouses Anatoly further with an adrenaline spike, because nothing good _ever_ happens when Parson gets that tone. "Sorry for waking you."

Anatoly snorts derisively under his breath and makes his way into Parson's room.

Half of Parson's clothes are crumpled on the floor like he literally threw them off--but it's not his suit. It's what he changed into earlier, the jeans and flannel that always puts Parson at the bottom of the best-dressed list among the boys; the same jeans and flannel that he was wearing when he let himself be photographed and filmed and tagged earlier like a goddamn idiot.

The same jeans and flannel that are the exact opposite of the dress attire the Las Vegas Hockey Club explicitly requires its players to wear during road trips.

His Aces' cap is on the floor too, dented in on one side where it must have hit the dresser. After being thrown hard.

Anatoly tightens his jaw and comes up to the bathroom doorway.

Parson's brushing his teeth at the sink, face as expressionless as his voice was. His eyes narrow slightly when he sees Anatoly in his peripheral vision, but he doesn't say anything.

Parson _reeks_ of alcohol.

Anatoly folds his arms across his chest. "Tell me you didn't drive back here."

Parson looks at him in the mirror, eyes narrowed further.

"No," Anatoly replies. "You don't get to pull crap like this before a game and show up smelling like a brewery, and then get mad at me for asking that."

"I'm not drunk," he says tersely.

"I've got a nose, Parson."

Parson rolls his eyes and spits out toothpaste. Anatoly tightens his fingers on his arms.

"Everybody was drunk," Parson replies, wiping off his mouth. "And the place was packed. It kept getting spilled on me."

He gives Anatoly another annoyed look in the mirror. "You seriously think I'd drive drunk?"

"No," Anatoly says, "normally."

Parson glances at him in irritation again, and then deliberately ignores Anatoly and starts rinsing out his mouth.

Anatoly clenches his hands more, and then forces himself to relax them and reminds himself that it's impossible to get anything out of Parson by pushing. He just gets more obstinate and swings back harder.

Especially on anything that touches on fucking Zimmermann.

 _How can you be so smart and so god damn stupid at the same time?_ Anatoly thinks at Parson for yet another time in his life.

"You okay?" he asks instead, leaning against the door frame.

Parson keeps rinsing his face, his mouth, grabbing a towel to dry off, anything to ignore Anatoly. Anatoly resists the urge to tap his foot against the floor and thinks _I need sleep too, asshole_.

Parson still has his face hidden in the towel when he answers, "No."

Anatoly's trying to decide if the rare honesty is a good or even worse sign when Parson throws the towel onto the counter. "I will be. Get back to sleep, the alarm'll be off soon."

 _No shit_ , Anatoly thinks. "All right."

When Parson just keeps standing blankly in front of the sink without saying anything else, Anatoly adds, "You know video of you getting slaughtered at beer pong's up on Youtube."

Parson still doesn't say anything for a moment.

And then he makes an exasperated growl and braces his hands on the counter, resting his head against the mirror. "Who the _fuck's_ that good without cheating."

Anatoly smirks without humor. "Parser. The irony of **you** saying that."

"Like goddamn Bryant and Lin and Curry rolled in one," Parson mutters.

Anatoly makes a vague noise in the back of his throat.

Parson breathes out slowly through his teeth and then pushes straight and turns toward the doorway. Anatoly shifts back so he's no longer blocking it.

"You sure you're gonna be all right?" he asks when Parson walks past him.

"I'll be fine," Parson says, dropping down onto one of the beds. He kicks the coverlet to the floor and drags a pillow under his head. "Just lemme sleep."

 _Fine_ , Anatoly thinks, gritting his jaw again before forcing himself to relax that as well. _Fuck you too, you spoiled brat_. "Alright."

Anatoly shuts his door between their rooms behind him, and then drops into his bed and tries to go back to sleep.  
  
  
On Monday morning the head coach sends Parson back to the hotel to get more sleep when he tries to dress for the optional skate that morning, so obviously the front office knows what he did.

But when the list of players is turned in for that night's game, Parson's name is still on it. In the first line.

Because when you're as talented as Kent Parson, you can make a total fuckup of personal choices like last night and get away with it with zero consequences.  
  
  
By Monday night, Anatoly and Parson have both said things they shouldn't have, in front of people who shouldn't have heard them, in a fight that'll have aftereffects on the Aces for months.

But that's getting ahead of the story.  
  
  
Anatoly thought he'd kept his irritation to himself during skate and lunch and his stick prep, but it gets clear that's a nope when Showy hunts him down in the meeting room where Anatoly's taken his snack a couple hours before the game.

Anatoly always uses meals to get some solitude, and Showy knows damn well that Anatoly doesn't like his schedule being messed with on game days. So when the Aces' alternate captain comes into the room, Anatoly shoves his spoon into his oatmeal and demands, "Goddammit, what's he done **now**?"

"Yeeeeeeeeeah," Showy says, shutting the door. "All right. I know you're big on the stoic, hardboiled schtick, Vichy, but we're gonna have a fucking conversation about our feelings."

"--Seriously," Anatoly says flatly. "This is what you're bugging me for."

"Have you heard yourself at all today?" Showy asks, pulling out a chair across from Anatoly at the table and sitting down. "This isn't 'I'm pissed about being woken up at 3 a.m. by my jackass suite mate,' pal. This's been building for a while."

"I'm fine."

Showy just settles more comfortably in the chair and keeps looking at him.

Anatoly eats his oatmeal.

"I'm _fine_ ," he repeats shortly a few minutes later, when it's almost gone and Showy's clearly intending to wait him out. "If he wants to pull shit like last night, it's not my goddamn problem. If he's got shit taste in friends and hangs out with addicts, I don't give a damn as long as he doesn't fuck up on the ice."

"Anatoly," Showy says coolly, "I've called you out on that shit before and I'll fuckin' do it again."

Anatoly exhales through his teeth. "I'm not disrespecting--"

"You use words with disparaging connotations, you're helping normalize the stigma that keeps people from seeking help," Showy replies, splaying a hand on the table and tapping his index finger, silently drawing attention to the black ring there. "Don't you fucking pretend you don't know words have power."

Anatoly slumps back in his chair and drags his fingers through his hair, exhaling for a lot longer.

"Yeah, alright," he mutters, because this isn't the hill he's going to die on. Anatoly respects Showy's outreach work with veterans, even if the other man's new partnership with 22Kill this season feels like Showy overcompensating for what happened with Tobin last season and what's still happening with Sturluson.

It's just hard for Anatoly to feel compassion for people who make the choice to drink or drug themselves into oblivion, or to kill themselves. Nobody made them do that--it's their own damn decision.

Showy was a nervous wreck on long roadies because at one point his parents were raising his infant daughter in their house, because Showy's wife was afraid to be alone with the baby in case she hurt it.

Anatoly knows Rae isn't a bad woman; but she was definitely a different person during that time. She didn't start getting back to being herself until almost a year after she finally began seeing a therapist.

Anatoly knows Showy feels the way he does about stress, and people who're dismissive of its deleterious effects, for a reason.

 _Don't be an asshole_ , he tells himself. "Sorry."

"Just because someone's threshold for coping is different than yours doesn't make them weak," Showy replies.

It's still aggravating when Anatoly's being obligated to have compassion for Jack Zimmermann, a man who had **everything** and make his own goddamn choice to piss it all away.

"I know, Short." Anatoly rubs his thumbs against his eyelids. "I'm not disrespecting them."

Showy lets out a quiet breath, and then slides his hands into his suit jacket pockets. "All right.

"I'm not gonna ask why you didn't want to talk to anyone before it ran on this long," he adds, "since, you know, I already answered that question."

Anatoly flips him off.

"Seriously, Vichy," Showy says. "You know you can talk to me, right? If you need to rant about Parse to get some shit out of your system, I'll buy the fuckin' beer."

Anatoly snorts mirthlessly and slouches in his chair.

Then, because he doesn't want to be a dick to one of his closest friends--Showy is the only other man besides Jeff who knows the truth about why Anatoly and Nadimochka took so long to marry, because they're the only two Anatoly trusts not to use it against him when they end up on opposite teams--he rubs a hand over his face before asking, "How the hell'er you so chill about this?"

"Pal, you saw that text," Showy replies dryly. "I spent a good half-hour this morning fantasizing about kicking in his door and wringing his fucking neck."

Anatoly snorts harder, for real this time.

"I bet I could've gotten a key from the front desk if I gave his room number and said I lost mine," Showy remarks. "I'd have to unlock the door and open it enough first so nothing breaks and the Globe isn't tweeting 'Aces defenseman goes berserk before facing Bruins, ninja-kicks down hotel door,' but I still think it'd be sufficiently theatrical. The essence of my frustration would be conveyed."

"Oh my god," Anatoly mumbles between snickers, shaking his head. "You fuckin' should've. I would've covered for you."

"Sweet, I'll see how I feel after the game."

Anatoly snickers a little more before trailing off and reaching for his water.

Showy braces his feet on the table and starts to tilt his chair onto its back legs before apparently thinking better of it. "It'd be easier to stay pissed at him if I didn't know why he did it, though."

Anatoly sighs exaggeratedly, and then says, "All right already, Showy."

He eats the last bite of oatmeal before taking the bait. "Why?"

"Parse knows about the problem with Heit," Showy says evenly. "I don't care how fucking hopped up he is with this streak, I make damn sure he's hearing the guys' complaints."

Anatoly just makes a 'go on' gesture, because he already knows this.

(Parson's point streak is the biggest story going this season, outside of the Aces' organization.

Inside the organization, the story is how the Aces' defensive coach is becoming a breaking point of contention among the d-men this season.

The Las Vegas Aces' intense offensive play is their trademark under current head coach Aaron Moss. But losing their prime offensive player to a broken ankle last season exposed that that offense was the only thing counterbalancing a frequently leaky defense.

The Aces never recovered from that exposure, even after Parser came back. The teams they were up against in last year's playoffs obviously strategized for it.

Moss didn't bring in new assistant coaches when he was hired to replace the previous head coach. The best Anatoly could infer, Moss was leery of changing too much on his arrival. Everyone was already flipping out that Dan Lewis--the first, and so far only, coach who'd won the Aces a Stanley Cup--had resigned abruptly in the middle of the final push of the season. And then, when the Aces finally replaced him after the team had already fallen out of the playoffs, they had the temerity to do it with an NCAA coach instead of someone out of the league pool.

The club organized an extensive blitz in coordination with the local newspaper and radio and television media to try and present a smooth transition, but there was nothing to be done about the bloggers or individual fans' social media rants. Season ticket sales for the next year plateaued as people either delayed or decided against renewing. And all the while, the impending threat of the lockout made everything worse.

So it made some sense that Moss didn't bring new assistant coaches in him when he came on. He just interviewed and then retained Paul Kurlansky and Leonard Heit.

Paul, the assistant coach in charge of offense, has done a great job adjusting himself and the forwards to the fast, high-risk system Moss has implemented.

Heit has done a much shittier job of adjusting the defensemen.

There's plenty of different accusations why. Anatoly's heard plenty of rants from Showy and enough general grumbling from some of the boys to know that several d-men think they're getting conflicting instructions on how to react to the chaos the offense fosters after practically each game; that the stay-at-home defenders feel underused and their play undervalued because it doesn't include racking up points; and that the younger d are getting fed up with a system of favoritism they think gives more focus and attention to the veteran d-men than them, and getting even more fed up at old men telling them they're spoiled millennials if they complain about it.

The GM's official comment in an interview a month ago was that the NHL isn't a development league and it's not the team's responsibility to grow younger players. It's those players' job to earn their place.

Showy's unofficial position is that if you think you're going to get offensive, puck-moving play out of guys when you immediately bench or scratch them if they make a mistake while doing it, you're a fucking idiot.

It's not like these problems are new. They've been around since 2013, when Moss began implementing the new system for the team.

It's just that they've been coming to a head now that Showy's an alternate captain.

Showy--the Aces' top offensive defenseman, one half of the Aces' veteran defense pairing, the guy whose stats have earned him the second-best contract on team after Parser, and the defenseman who was Vegas's Norris nomination for the past two seasons even if he didn't win it--is a veteran player who's become one of Heit's favorites, and who's allowed to make mistakes without being benched or scratched or even seeing Moss cut his ice time much.

Showy also happens to hate seeing other guys he knows are talented be put on much shorter leashes.

Which means he tends to side with the younger defensemen, making them comfortable with getting more vocal about their frustration with the defensive coach.

Which puts Showy in direct counterpoint to Sturluson--the Aces' other alternate captain, the team's oldest defenseman, the other half of the Aces' veteran defense pairing and Showy's main partner--since Sturluson is firmly of the opinion that whenever any player fucks up, it's their own fault, not the system's. Even if that player is himself.

["Of course he does," Showy will say about Sturluson, when he and Anatoly will be talking out on Anatoly's balcony at his New Year's Eve party in seventeen more days.

They'll be out there because Showy will've gotten snarky at the television about Senator Reid and Yucca Mountain, and even though Anatoly will agree with him, he has a rule that anybody who talks politics at his parties gets exiled to the balcony with no coat to think about their poor life choices. If they've shown up at the party without a coat and they're not someone's wife, Anatoly takes their shirt. It's an effective rule; he started it when he initially discovered that Chazzer and Nadimochka's conflicting nationalist attitudes meant Chazzer was never invited to teammate dinner again.

"Of _course_ he fucking does," Showy will repeat, biting the words off and rapping his beer can sharply on the railing. "People that hate themselves do this kind of shit all the fucking _time_. He hates himself for the pills, so it's all his fault not Hei--"

" **Zach** ," Anatoly will interrupt in horror, because it's a goddamn balcony--any neighbor with a window open could hear him. It won't matter how loud everyone's music and televisions are, there's always a risk. "Fucking cool it!"

Showy will bang the can down on the rail.

"He's going to keep insisting it's not Heit's fucking fault he can't teach this system no matter what," Showy will snarl. "I'm so fuckin' tired of this, Vichy. I'm fuckin' tired of our defense being shit, we're _better_ than this. Why the fuck can't he figure out how to shape the system around the guys we **got** , why the fuck do I have to keep doing that motherfucker's job _for_ him?"

Anatoly will sling an arm over Showy's shoulders, because he won't have an answer.]

The club dismissing Heit or demoting him to the AHL has become unspokenly recognized as Showy's hard requirement if the Aces want him to extend his contract after this season.

That would make things difficult enough; but Anatoly knows that the pushback Showy's gotten from the front office for being so outspoken about veteran suicide and its prevention since he started partnering with 22Kill is another reason he's willing to sign out of the Aces.

Anatoly could have and in fact has told Showy that Vegas isn't the city to be in if he's really committed to this.

Nellis doesn't want to deal with a local athlete raising awkward questions about what's going to happen to its air force personnel after they transition back to civilians. Respecting service members and honoring veterans and gold star families is great; talking about ugly downsides and white star families, not so much.

And Las Vegas doesn't want a local celebrity forcing tourists to think about anything difficult while they're here to have fun. Or talking about anything that might lead to discussions about the suicide rate in this city. Anything that could tarnish the image of the Entertainment Capital of the World isn't good for business.

And despite what a lot of people still think, the mob's long gone from Vegas. It's corporations that run things here now.

So anything that's bad for business is going to be treated like the threat it is.)

Showy shrugs. "I'm not sayin' I don't think he could convince Impey firing Heit was his own idea with enough time," he says. "It's fucking _Parse_ , you know? If anybody can out-GM a GM, it's him."

Anatoly snorts low.

"But a pretty good bandage while he's working on that problem would be bolstering the offense," Showy continues. "And what better way to do that than the Aces signing the guy Parse's had legendary offense stats with, right?"

Anatoly makes himself take a long drink of water.

"My favorite part of this," Showy adds into the silence, "is he's spent thirty-two--no. Add in preseason. He's spent _thirty-eight fucking games_ subconsciously telling everyone 'I don't care about next season, I was never gonna be second pick, I didn't need Zimmermann for my Juniors points,' and then he goes right back to that fucker soon as we land."

Showy exhales slowly before folding his arms behind his head. "One of these days, scientists are going to figure out how that kid can be so fucking good at reading a room and _still_ have the personal EQ of a radish. And it is going to unlock a secret of the god damned universe."

When Anatoly's drained the glass, he sets it back down and says, "Quit trying to make me laugh so I won't be angry."

"Sure," Showy agrees, "once I'm done. But I got **hours** of material here."

" _Fuck_ ," Anatoly bites off. "Of course that's why he fucking did it. I swear, I'll--"

"Nah," Showy interrupts, "that's just the excuse he used to justify what he already wanted to do."

Anatoly gives him a flat look.

"You remember the first reports online, after Zimmermann overdosed?"

"No."

"--Seriously?"

"I didn't give a shit," Anatoly says tersely. "I was busy with conditioning. If yet another rich kid couldn't hack the pressure of living, it was a day ending in y. I had my own concerns."

Showy narrows his eyes.

"Do you want me to lie, Short?" Anatoly asks. "That's what I thought. I saw the blurb, I thought some assholish thoughts, and then I got back to my life and didn't think about him again."

Showy lets out a slow breath; but he lets it go. "All right."

He rubs the bridge of his nose for a moment before sliding his arm back behind his head. "I followed it. I did pretty good in my call-ups that year, I figured if I really busted ass in camp I could probably make the roster next season," Showy says. "So, anything affecting the Aces' first pick was worth keeping an eye on, you know?"

Anatoly nods once.

When they were both in the farm team back in 2008-09, Showy was the final cut from the Aces during preseason and the first guy called up from the Sovereigns once the season started. Anatoly always knew the man was serious competition for a spot on the Aces' roster.

"You at least heard it was Zimmermann's billet mom that found him?" Showy asks.

When Anatoly nods again, Showy continues: "One of the very first reports I saw, I remember it said she went looking for him because someone called the house, saying Zimmermann wasn't answering his cell phone."

Anatoly makes an 'and?' gesture.

"It stuck with me because that disappeared once the reports started getting more official, less half-rumors."

Showy shrugs a shoulder. "I figured it was, I dunno, his agent, some friend that was still a minor, who knows. Somebody who didn't want their name involved because who the hell would, right? So that got excised since everybody just wanted to hear about how he was found, not why."

"Okay," Anatoly says, trying not to sound annoyed at how Showy's dragging this out.

"But on the other hand," Showy says, looking him in the eye, "you tell me, who do we both know who keeps phone numbers not just for the guys, but also their girlfriends or wives in case a guy isn't answering his own phone? And who can be real fuckin' annoying about calling all of those numbers when he wants to get ahold of you?"

Anatoly looks back at him for a long moment; and then he braces his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands.

"Not that this is in any way related," Showy adds, "but you've heard that one rumor about why Parse refused to do the combine too, yeah?"

Anatoly drops his head to the table and covers it with his arms. " _ **God**_."

"Good enough," Showy says. There's a thump as he drops his feet back to the floor.

"...I keep forgetting he's a lot more fragile than he fakes," he says, quieter.

"Nineteen's pretty young to be a captain, when you think how many people's jobs depend on us," Showy adds, after a couple more moments of silence from Anatoly. "But seventeen's way too fucking young to think you're responsible for literally keeping someone alive when he's destroying himself."

"Fuck," Anatoly says tiredly.

"I don't know how a guy makes himself be okay walking away from that situation, even when he knows it's bad for him," Showy says. "What I'm saying is it's a fucked up mess, Anatoly. I don't know how Parse can convince himself it was never his responsibility and just move on. I don't know what the answer to any of this shit is. But if you need to talk about anything, we're friends," Showy tells him. "I'm here for you, man. Okay?"

Anatoly forces himself to sit up, slumping back deep into his chair. "God. Yeah. Okay."

He rubs his face again, feeling even more tired now than the middle of last night. And he has to play in a couple hours. Fuck.

"Thanks, Zach," Anatoly adds, meaning it.

Showy nods solemnly.

And then he says, "So if he ever pulls this shit again, I can count on you to hold Scrappy back long enough for me to throw Parse head-first in the laundry bin, yeah?"

Anatoly starts to stifle a laugh and then just lets himself go with it. "Abso _lutely_."

"Excellent, I knew I could count on you."

"You gotta let Jeff help."

"No, I'm working on this whole speech about how if Parse's gonna create dirty laundry for the team he has to go in it," Showy replies, pushing his chair back and standing. "He can't appreciate my elegant fuckin' metaphor if Scrappy's punching him."

"'Elegant,'" Anatoly repeats dryly.

"Fuck off, it's a work in progress," Showy says defensively. "Puns are hard."

Anatoly gives a mocking snort as he stands up. Showy flips him off.  
  
  
(That conversation won't help prevent the fight, obviously.

But it'll be part of the reason why Showy and Jeff will able to talk Anatoly down as well and as quickly as they will afterward.

Despite Jeff's own aggravation, and despite everything Kent "frequently brings a gun to a knife fight" Parson will have said and done.)  
  
  
A lot of other things happen after December fourteenth.

The Aces go from their games in Providence and Boston straight into three more across New York, because their home barn was booked with back-to-back events.

At the start of the season, it looked like a lousy scheduling situation. Instead, it turns a creepily compelling argument for the hockey gods.

The Aces' final game of the roadie is in Buffalo: the arena that Parson's family always turns out at. That's the game where Parson extends his point streak to 36, doubling what the previous record for American-born players used to be.

Anatoly's parents call him after the game. Even though Anatoly knows it's to congratulate him on the Aces' win, he still can't force down his restless, irrational anger for long enough to be a good son and answer. He goes over to visit late the next morning instead, after he's woken up from the redeye plane trip home.

(His 'irrational' anger.

The longest point streak Anatoly's ever had in his career is six games. He knows damn well why it's so hard to congratulate Parson as the man keeps raising the bar higher and higher out of reach.

It was hard even before Anatoly and Parson became completely fed up with each other. Now it's just something Anatoly does because he has to. He's not going to be the guy who fucks up the team by bringing his petty jealousy into the locker room.

Anatoly knew he was on the roster with a prodigy from day one. He kept re-signing his contract anyway. He can keep his goddamn mouth shut and his head up and deal with his choices.

Besides, Anatoly will be a twenty-nine-year-old UFA at the end of this season.

The front office didn't want to negotiate an early extension on his contract after the Aces' losing slump and playoff wildcard status last season. And Anatoly doesn't doubt that the PR problem he created the season before that, with that fucking article during the lockout, isn't still a black mark against his name with the GM.

And that doesn't even touch on what could happen if and when the silent investors decide he's stopped being useful. They already got the names of the people in the organization leaking info to him, after all.

Anatoly knows that the trajectory for normal players is an arc. He's already done his years eating pucks coming up in the minors; he knows that eventually he's going to be back there, on his way down.

But he doesn't want it to be just yet.

Anatoly wants an NHL contract. He wants a renewal with the Las Vegas Aces; he wants to stay in his hometown. He wants to keep living the dream, here, for as long as he can.

And if Anatoly makes any more waves than he already has with Kent Parson--the Aces' captain, the franchise's face, the club's most valuable asset, a man who's already maneuvered at least one guy Anatoly knows of down to the minors and whom keeping happy was absolutely part of the decision behind trading another, a player who's got his own baggage and PR problems but who's still younger and faster and better than Anatoly will ever be--if Anatoly does that, well, there's not a chance in hell the Aces will choose to keep him over Parson.

Nothing in sports runs without the power of story; and Parson's got a lot more years left in his story than Anatoly does.

So Anatoly keeps his mouth shut and his head up and keeps his shit out of the locker room, and he tries to keep it out of his home as well. Nadimochka's got her own burdens, with a new dickish pit boss on her floor and intermittent nausea side-effects from a fertility treatment they tried that she had an allergic reaction to. Anatoly doesn't want to put any more stress on her shoulders. It's his career; it's his responsibility to handle.

Losing something is easy. Keeping it can take almost everything you've got, sometimes.)  
  
  
On January 6, 2015, the Avs manage to finally break Parson's streak in a shutout loss for the Aces.

At 41 games, Kent Parson now holds the third longest point streak record in NHL history.

He's the only player on the list to put up a record since the 1980-90s, after the rules of the game started changing to make it harder to score. The impact for the club is visible: Aces' home games have been selling out in record numbers the last couple months. More importantly, the seats are actually filled, most of them all the way to the end of the games. The fanstore has barely kept ahead on stocking number 90's jersey.

Parson's pretty unquestionably seized the title of the best American-born player of their generation, though the jury's still out on whether he or Crosby are currently the greatest in the world.

Very few people within the Aces are surprised when, after the adrenaline feed of the streak that Parson was thriving on finally cuts off, he craters hard.

Which is the point it gets painfully clear to a lot of people in the club that Anatoly and Parson haven't been speaking to each other much beyond practice and games for over three weeks.  
  
  
Parson manages to get over his slump after several games, mostly by haranguing people who aren't Anatoly for once into practicing with him.

Three games into Parson's drought, the head coach starts rearranging lines in practices and then games.

Chazzer's promoted to the first line to center Parson and Smith, something Anatoly was always subconsciously waiting for. When Chazzer's got his temper under control, he's a more creative player than Anatoly. Metrics and video don't lie.

Anatoly gets moved to the second line, where he struggles with the increased defensive requirements and hemorrhages wingers--sometimes in the middle of games. The coach's new trend of blending lines throughout January doesn't go unnoticed; Anatoly hears the announcers mention it occasionally when he rewatches games.

The day before they kick off February with a Central roadie, Anatoly runs into the assistant coach in charge of the forwards in the clubhouse kitchen. Paul finishes filling his thermos and then hands the coffee pot to Anatoly, and says, "Can I talk to you for minute?"

 _Ah fuck_ , Anatoly thinks.

There's still twenty-six more days until the trade deadline. He thought he'd have more time.

He expected to be called by the GM to hear it--but Anatoly's never been traded before. Maybe this is how the process starts. Or maybe they want to make sure he keeps his mouth shut online.

Anatoly isn't sure he can pour the coffee without his hand shaking, so he puts the pot back because he's going to take this like a man. "Yeah, of course."

"You know this move to second line isn't a punishment, right?" Paul asks.

A proper interstice here would be a record scratch or a double take; but since Anatoly's a real person all he manages is an awkward "--Uh?"

Paul blows away some of the steam from his mug. "It's something Aaron was talking with me about back at camp.

"We know defensive gaps are a concern," Paul continues, looking at him; and Anatoly immediately thinks _Shit Showy, you've gotta shut up already_.

"The idea was to work you into a more two-way center. But Parse started lighting it up right in preseason, and George said not to fuck with anything that's not broken. So, this isn't a punishment," Paul repeats. "The timing's just good now to start adjusting our system in prep for the playoffs. All right?"

If Anatoly was still selling information, he would've just come into a windfall.

The Las Vegas Aces' intense offensive play is their trademark under its new head coach, and when Moss was hired he retained the club's existing assistant coaches. Paul's done a great job adjusting the offense to Moss's system; Heit has not done the same with the defense. Anatoly knew all that, because everyone knows that.

Anatoly did _not_ know things in the front office were so tense that the Aces' GM was going so far as to give the head coach instructions on how to run his bench.

And at the start of the season, too. **That's** news.

But then, it's been three years since the Aces last won a Cup, or even made it out of the conference finals. That's the point when GMs and coaches all know their time's running out.

Anatoly reminds himself to grab Showy as soon as the man comes in and pass on Paul's comment about the defensive gaps. Maybe if Showy knows that Heit's apparently on thin ice with the head coach, he'll start keeping his mouth shut more.

"All right," Anatoly finally says. "--Thanks, Paul."

Paul nods.

"That's why he keeps bouncing Catsby onto your line, too," Paul adds, after another drink of coffee. "I'm not going to get into trade speculation, but I know Aaron thinks he could handle center if need be. He's planning to talk to both of you soon about Catsby learning more from you."

"Oh," Anatoly manages.

He thought Catalano kept shifting between left wing on Anatoly's line and center on the third while the usual third-line center was out with an injury because the coaches were still trying to figure out if the rookie should have top- or bottom-six minutes. Hearing this is....

Paul nods again. "But before then, we're going increase your defensive play," he says. "You've got this breather on second line, so I'm gonna start pushing you hard on it from today."

There's a lot of unsaid things there in the term 'breather;' but Anatoly doesn't address them. "Understood."

"Good," Paul says. "See you at practice, Vichy."

Anatoly nods, and finally reaches for the coffee pot again as the man leaves.  
  
  
Las Vegas is doing so well this season that they're back to being buyers at the trade deadline, picking up new guys in preparation for their near-inevitable run in the playoffs.

The day after Troy arrives in Vegas, swapped by the Avalanche for a conditional second round pick, Moss assigns him to left wing on Parson's line for almost the entirety of his first morning practice with the Aces.

That afternoon, Anatoly's the only guy still changing in the locker room with Smith when Troy comes in, sits down in the stall next to Smith's with his sticks and a roll of tape, and asks, "Anything else I should know?"

"You hear Parse humming 'Shake It Off' on the bench, you got 'bout one more shift to step to whoever's shadowing him before he starts chirping guys' wives," Smith says, pulling on his workout shorts. "If he's doing it in the dressing room, that's normal. On the bench, he's fed up and he's gonna start drawing penalties.

"Also, Parse's taste in music is _shit_ and you should drag him for it every minute you can," Smith continues.

Troy snorts hard. "Check."

"If you hear him humming Kanye, he's gonna cause a fight and there's nothing you can do about it," Smith adds, picking up his t-shirt. "Just try and be close enough to hog-tie anybody that could really throw him around."

Troy raises an eyebrow. "Check. Any Kanye?"

"Showy says it's 'Stronger.' I took his word for it," Smith shrugs. "Parse's fuckin' tone-deaf. If you figure out what he hums when he's taping his sticks before a rivalry game, tell Robber. You'll clean up in the bet."

"You haven't just asked?" Troy says, reasonably.

Smith answers, "Parse gets weird if he thinks you know him too well."

"...Check," Troy says again. 

"If he stops talking on the bench, that's the real bad sign," Smith adds, tugging on the shirt. "That's not a guy pulled some shit and Parse thinks it's his duty as captain to hit 'em back for it, or he's gonna piss off a guy until they snap and take a penalty. That's he's gonna start a fight and it's gonna be dirty."

Troy half-smirks as he cuts the tape on his first blade. "Aren't all his fights?"

"All fuckin' career five of 'em?" Smith sniggers. He sits down on the floor, blowing out a breath before starting to stretch. "Yeeeep. You wanna learn a bunch of Italian swear words, ask Scrappy what he thinks of Parse always breaking the code. It's great."

Troy chuckles as he reaches for his next stick. "Got it.

"So he's a rat," he confirms, starting to tape the blade. "I mean, I heard he never warns anybody before going."

"Oh fuck, no, that's the best part!" Smith says, slapping the floor gleefully as he sits up. "You know that fine he took cross-checking Tommy?"

That's putting it mildly.

That was the away game last year against the Aeros. In the last quarter of second period, Parser hit Farkas into the boards, started to leave, saw that the refs were facing the other direction, and then cross-checked Farkas in the back of the head to slam it into the glass.

The Houston arena threw a goddamn _fit_. But by the time the refs looked over, Parser was already skating away.

Once the Jumbotron replayed the hit, the Aeros' captain lost it enough to tear over at Parser. When Anatoly arrived to help the refs wrench them apart, Parser was just protecting his head and still had his gloves on; when one of the refs started to cuss him out, Parser's only response was a sneered "I fuckin' warned him at face-off."

Farkas was shadowing Jeff that night and had been laying into him with some really nasty hits, to the point that after Jeff took an unpenalized elbow to the head the Aces' coach was starting to pull Jeff's line whenever the Aeros' coach sent Farkas's onto the ice.

Anatoly heard Parser's flat "Back the fuck off, asshole" when Parser and Farkas were lining up to his right a couple face-offs ago--but nobody with goddamn sense would interpret the connotation as 'Or I'm gonna take a game misconduct to give you a concussion.'

At this point Anatoly's given up all pretense of dressing and he's blatantly staring at the two of them; but of course that doesn't stop Smith.

"Fuck yes, Smitty," Troy answers dryly. "You guys played us two games later, the vid coach gave me that to watch." He shakes his head. "I didn't catch the number at first. I was sitting there, rewinding it and thinking 'What the _**fuck**_ , Scalfano?!' and praying he'd still be suspended by our game if he was turning that dirty."

Smith cracks up.

"You gotta tell Scrappy that!" he cackles, flopping on his back on the floor. "You _absolutely_ gotta tell him that."

"Uh-huh."

Smith just laughs harder, arms folded over his stomach. "It'd be great, he'd beat the shit outta you."

"I'll get right on that." Troy finishes with his blade and cuts the tape. "How the shit'd Parson just get a fine for that bullshit?"

"No, no, this is the best part!" Smith says, sitting up. "So at the hearing, they're like 'What the fucking fuck Parson explain yourself' and he went--Scrappy said--"

Smith rubs his face for a couple seconds. "Okay. 'That was unacceptable of me. It was a close game, and I was frustrated that Farkas's elbow to Scalfano's head at thirteen minutes, twelve seconds of second period was never penalized, and I let it get to me. I apologize for my unsportsmanlike conduct, and I'm glad that Farkas was okay,'" Smith says. "He dropped the _exact_ time of that illegal hit, since everybody in the room knew Tommy wasn't called into a hearing for it."

"You're shitting me, mate," Troy says in disbelief.

"For fuckin' real, Trojan," Smith swears. "Scrappy was all ' _How the fuck motherfucker I woulda got ten games_ ' and Parse told him that's what he did."

Smith looks over at Anatoly. "Right? He said you were there."

"...Yeah," Anatoly says. "Pretty much."

Smith turns back to Troy. "Everybody knew that was gonna be the press release if they suspended him. And **then** they'd have to explain why they ignored the hit on Scrappy, and **then** they'd have to acknowledge how many times they shit the bed calling out illegal hits on agitators, and fuck I wish I coulda been there," Smith says wistfully, shaking his head. "Watch Parse be all 'I got you by the balls, you want me to twist or let go?'"

Troy's bent over, laughing in incredulity. "You're fucking shitting me!"

"Shit you not," Smith promises. "That psycho doubled down on the _motherfucking DPS_." 

"Holy **shit**." Troy coughs on a laugh. "How the **fuck'd** he get away with that!?"

"He's one of the best American players in the league," Smith answers rationally. "And he's _not_ the one who punched a cab driver. Sooooo," he fingerguns like a loser at Troy. "The fuck're they gonna do to him, huh?"

"Holy _**shit**_." Troy braces an arm hard on his thigh, staring at Smith. "No. You serious, Smitty?"

"Dead," Smith says, grin fading. "He knows it, too. Just watch. Every time Kane fucks up or Phil's a diva, Parse goes more corporate. Like, after Kaner did that drunk blowout in Madison, now you can't get Parse to buy more than two beers in public. We _tried_. I fuckin' bought him drinks myself, and he just tells the server 'Sorry, I already hit my calorie count on my diet today' and tips 'em and says share it with the bartender for their trouble." Smith does a fist shake. "Like, you suave mother _fucker_ pay me back!"

Troy gives a low whistle. "Goddamn."

"Just watch," Smith says again. "He ain't gonna be satisfied until the official history's 'The greatest American-born players of this era were Kent Parson, a lethal helper and scorer and all-American athlete who was a true ambassador of the values of the NHL, and also some other guy from New York.'"

Troy drops his head, laughing again.

"Son of a bitch." Troy shakes his head slowly. "I knew he can't ignore challenges, but still. The fuckin' _DPS?_ "

"Aw fuck, you figured that out?" Smith asks.

"Yep," Troy nods. "Roy had a rule, any guy that managed to goad Parse into the box got their own room on a roadie no matter who they were. Even if accounting bitched."

"You sonovabitch, you couldn't've warned me?" Smith says, kicking Troy in the leg.

Troy just shrugs. "You were the other team, mate."

"Fuck you!" Smith exclaims, sniggering even as he flips Troy a double bird. "Shiiiiiiiit, I shoulda guessed."

"We weren't, like, fucking **subtle** , Smitty," Troy grins.

"Fuck yooooooou." Smith drops his hands. "What'd you get for pissin' off Chazzer?"

"A bucket of ice for the bruises," Troy answers wryly, and Smith cracks up again.

"Shit, yeah," Smith grins. "He's gotten better. Like, talk to his lineys, we don't really hang, but he's better. He started doing some like, fuckin' _extreme yoga_ or shit. The super hot one."

"Bikram?" Troy asks.

"I dunno. The 'go do some stretches in a sauna, sweat out your fuckin' psychosis' yoga," Smith says. "Oh, and don't need him a couple hours before a game. He'll be meditating."

"Seriously?"

"Whatever works, yeah?" Smith says. "Boxy plays guitar, Chazzer meditates, Scrappy blares goddamn AC/DC to psyche himself up. You still need quiet, jog away from the equipment area. Or like, the west half of the arena."

"Check," Troy says.

"That's pretty much it, I guess," Smith finishes, going back to stretching. "Muck, get the puck to Parse and keep up, save him from himself when he forgets how to shut up. Rip him on his music. That's, eh, sixty percent of playing with him. Hit people and score'll cover the rest."

"Got it," Troy manages through a snicker. "--Hold up, wasn't there some shit about Parson crashing a frat party a couple months ago? The hell's corporate about that?"

"Yeah," Smith says, "that doesn't count. That was Boston."

Troy looks dubious; but before he can say anything, Smith smacks a hand on the floor again. "No, right. I don't know what the _fuck_ the deal is, but Parse's got it out for Brown lately. Kings' Brown, Dustin," he clarifies. "Like I thought last year was bad, but he's been fuckin' on him all season."

Anatoly frowns. "It's just rivalry shit."

"No, Vichy, man," Smith says. "Remember last year when Brown cut his face? Parse was chirping his _kids_. It ain't the club rivalry, it's personal."

"Bullshit," Anatoly says reflexively.

"I was there."

"What's personal about that?" Troy asks. "Parse's always a dick on the ice."

"Not about kids," Smith says. "He never chirps kids."

"You sure?" Troy asks dubiously. "Pretty sure I've slashed him for shit he said about my family."

"Not about Dylan," Smith says. "He never talks shit about minors. It's like, a legal reasons thing or something."

"Legal?"

"He's corporate as fuck," Smith shrugs. "I told you, he'll get weird if he thinks you know too much about him. I don't ask why he does stuff, I just know what he does and don't do. He doesn't chirp kids."

"Huh," Troy says. "...Was it an Olympics thing? He was a real jackass to Paul about that."

"That's what I thought, but he shoulda chirped Quick more if it was, right?" Smith says. "And he's _still_ goin' after Brown. Parse don't obsess about done deals that long. Pretty sure he's already thinking ahead to Pyongchang."

"Huh."

Smith shrugs again. "I dunno what the fuck it is, but we got one more game against them in...fuuuuck, I dunno, end'a March? So _that's_ gonna be fun."

"Got it," Troy says.

Smith looks over at Anatoly. "Anything I'm missing?"

"What the hell is this, Mitts," Anatoly finally says.

Smith gives him a hard-to-read look for a moment.

"I know how to do my job, Ivanovich," he says. "Half of it's keeping you two healthy enough to score. That means knowing you guys."

After a few moments of silence, Troy tries to resuscitate the atmosphere with, "Yeah, so--how'd it become 'Mitts'?"

"There was another Smith when I hit the roster," Smith answers. "'Mitts' stuck after he was traded. Call me either, just don't call me late to dinner."

"God-- _ **fuck you**_ , if you start that shit again I swear--" Troy warns, pointing his stick at Smith.

"Fuck **you** and your 'Check, mate' shit!"

Anatoly shrugs on his hoodie. "See ya," he says to neither of them, in order to leave like a normal person and not an asshole, and then he heads out to the workout room.

***

After Vichy leaves, Trojan looks back over at Brandon. "Guess I should've waited on asking."

"Parse and Vichy got a lotta shit between them," Brandon says. "Don't get involved. That's the most important thing--okay, no, wait."

Brandon pushes up off the floor and rocks onto his feet. "First. If anybody's talkin' about the Bruins, they'll say 'Bruins.' If they talk about 'Boston' around Parse or Vichy, they usually mean Jack Zimmermann. That one's important."

Trojan raises an eyebrow. "Check."

"Second, real important, don't ever forget the rat bastard out on the ice is the real Parse," Brandon warns. "The chill guy off it is the fake one. Don't fall for it. Keep him outta your life."

Trojan whistles low.

"I mean it, man. I keep seeing smart fuckin' guys fall for it," Brandon says, jerking his chin at the door Vichy left through. "Like none of 'em can remember Parse's last real friend ODed on anxiety meds."

"Jesus fuck, Smitty," Trojan says, pausing in the middle of taping his stick.

Brandon exhales slowly.

"I'm not saying he's awful," he walks back. "He's funny. He's a real fuckin' charmer."

Brandon rubs the back of his head. "He's a good teammate. He's not a douche about being the best guy on the team. He's a pretty good captain--I fucking warned Tommy, when Parse's on the ice he only gives a shit about the guys in his colors. Fuck what the coach orders you, you go after one of us too much and Parse's gonna remember you did it.

"But that's only for Aces." Brandon shrugs. "If you're on the other team, you could be bleeding out on the ice and he'll just be thinking 'bout how it's gonna change up the lines. Don't let him in your life."

"All right, mate, I got you." Trojan tilts his stick at the door. "He always like that?"

"Vichy? Shit, yeah," Brandon says. "He don't respect me."

"Mouthy cunt like you?" Trojan says straight-faced. "Naw."

"Vichy don't respect anybody he thinks doesn't work hard enough," Brandon shrugs again. "It's a real fuckin' problem with some of the kids. Be worse with other guys too, if Scrappy didn't go to bat for him."

"One of those, huh?" Trojan says, starting to tape the next stick.

"Yeeeeep." Brandon pops his neck. "I've seen him let guys hang for a mistake, because if they made it they must not've wanted to be here that bad. There's a reason I let _him_ deal with Parse's shit. Fuckin' deserves it."

Brandon snaps his fingers. "--Right. You can't say shit here like 'cunt' or 'retard' or--man, PR's gonna walk through the door if I go through the list, I know it. Like, any derogatory shit."

"Check."

"No, for real," Brandon warns. "It's not a front here. They mean it with the whole 'hockey is for everyone' thing. Parse's got a speech. I think he memorized it."

"Really?" Trojan says, looking like he thinks Brandon's setting up a prank again.

"I swear, man," he says. "That's why everybody just says 'fuck' a lot, that one's okay."

"Huh," Trojan replies.

Brandon lifts a shoulder. "You got a couple days to adjust, but after that Showy or Parse or someone'll start calling you on it."

"All right," Trojan agrees. He points a thumb over his shoulder at the door again. "So, that because Parse's a fa--gay guy? I heard rumors."

"Guess so," Brandon says, sitting down to stretch again. "He doesn't like, bring guys to parties or stare at your junk or anything. And he dates chicks too, so...."

Brandon shakes his head. "I'm startin' to think Showy's right and he's asexual. A guy like that oughta be balls deep in chicks. Or dudes. It's weird."

"The fuck's asexual?"

"Like--how'd Showy say." Brandon takes a second to visualize where they were and what he and Showy were doing when they were talking about it, so he can remember the words as exact as possible.

Trojan finishes with his last stick and waits without talking into the silence like Brandon's dumb for being quiet for a second. He's always been cool like that, even when they were in Juniors.

"Okay. 'So, if someone asked Parse to pick between having the best fuckin' blowjob of his life--I'm talking top-shelf porn level orgasm here--or having a highlight reel shift on the ice, Parse'd pick the shift like'" Brandon slides his palms together quick to make the rushing noise like Showy did. "'"Blowjob's not gonna win a game. I only live for winning, _points are all the blowjob I need_. This's why my stats're better than yours--picking a fuckin' beej over a killer shift, Jesus." I'm exaggerating here, but short version, somethin' like that.'"

Trojan's cackling again.

"Showy did it even better 'cause he can do Parse's voice," Brandon grins. "He's a fuckin' riot when he wants, sit around him on the plane."

"Check," Trojan laughs.

"What else, uh...." Brandon scrubs at his hair for a sec, and then snaps his fingers again. "You ever hear Parse talking off the ice like he does on it, keep him away from the rest of the guys."

"Check," Trojan says, raising an eyebrow again.

"Ask him about the league or something, get him goin'," Brandon says. "It's fucking amazing. Like if a GM were honest. Or Bettman."

Trojan snorts. "Really starting to question your definition of 'good teammate,' Smitty."

"You're on that list, so yeah, it's shit," Brandon grins. Trojan whacks his calf with his stick.

"Nah," Brandon says. "Parse's broken like goalies are broken. It ain't gonna change. 'Sides, he knows he's fucked up," he adds. "That's why he's got the fake side, to keep it down. You get him talking long enough, he'll figure out he's messing up and reset.

"It used to only be after playoffs, but he's been running kinda crazy all season," Brandon adds. "Tag me or Boxy if you gotta tap out, it can get pretty terrifying."

"Check," Trojan says, shaking his head slowly. "How the fuck is that **not** dealing with his shit, Smitty?"

"Vichy can't handle that part," Brandon answers. "He don't want to admit he fell for the fake. And I don't wanna deal with another fuckin' meltdown between them, it's a pain in the ass."

"All right, got it," Trojan says, before blowing out a breath. "You really ain't kiddin' with that 'keep 'em outta your life,' huh?"

"Nope," Brandon agrees, shaking his head again. "I was the most rational, sensible, sanest person on that line, Trojan. How fuckin' sad is _that?_ "

Trojan sniggers again.

***

The assistant coach for the forwards pushes Anatoly unrelentingly on his defensive play, riding his ass on it until some days Anatoly parks in the rink's lot and then swears loudly and violently for a few minutes until he's gotten out enough frustration that he can head into the building and get in gear and hit the ice again for another exhausting practice.

Anatoly doesn't hate Paul for it. He knows exactly why the coach's making him push his limits so hard and fast.

The team's doing well, steadily picking up points in wins or overtime losses. The new standard first line of Parser and Chazzer and Troy has some solid chemistry. Anatoly's gotten used enough to the new trades that he's able to keep his line stable no matter which wingers are put on it. The checking line's meshed; and the coach has been rolling out Jeff's line with so much confidence lately that the media's started referencing the energy guys as the KRS line. The Las Vegas Aces have a real chance not just to clinch a playoff spot or win the division, but to be the top seed of the Western Conference.

But, as Paul commented once, the coaches know that playing Parse and Chazzer together is a volatile combination.

Anybody that's been in the locker room with the two of them after a power play's failed to get a goal knows that. Paul was being generous.

So it's really not a surprise when Troy comes into the exercise room with Smith one afternoon, and then veers over to where Anatoly and Jeff are biking.

"Hey," Troy says, "you know Chazzer and Parse pretty well, yeah?"

 _There's a hidden assumption in that statement_ , Anatoly prevents himself from saying about Parser. He tugs out an earbud.

"Yeah," Jeff agrees, pulling his earbuds loose and tucking them through his necklace.

Troy waves a hand behind him toward the door, indicating wherever Chazzer and Parser are in the clubhouse since they aren't in the exercise room. "So, is this normal?"

Jeff snorts hard and slows his pace enough to talk. "You mean how Parse gets up on guys like he don't remember he's 5'11"? Yeah."

Anatoly holds a hand to his ear, because he's not one to pass up an opening to chirp Jeff on his height. "What was that? I didn't hear you down there."

Jeff punches him in the arm. Anatoly snickers as Troy leans an elbow on Jeff's bike monitor and says, "So, they're probably not about to kill each other."

"I wouldn't go that far," Jeff deadpans. Troy gives him a mildly vexed half-smirk.

"This's pretty normal," Anatoly says.

"How normal is 'pretty' normal?" Troy replies.

Anatoly shrugs his shoulders a little jerkily. "Just. Normal."

"I'm really just looking for if I'm gonna have to step between a fistfight soon," Troy says with a half smile.

"No," Anatoly says. "They're both professionals."

"Okay, Vichy," Troy backs off. "Thanks."

"Are you seriously worried?" Box calls from where he's stretching on the mats.

Troy looks over and then shifts on his feet, tilting toward Box and away from Anatoly. "Yeah, a bit. It's a lotta fucking yelling between lineys, you know?"

Anatoly reminds himself to quit being an asshole and stop judging the new guy just because he's old friends with Smith.

"They're fine," Box replies. "You've seen how Parse always crosses his arms as soon Chazzer starts swearing, right?"

Troy thinks about it, and says, "Yeah."

"You don't need to worry as long as you see him doing that," Box says, tilting his head so he's not talking into the mat. "You see Parse put his hands into his pockets, _then_ worry. Especially if you hear his accent coming back. Then throw something between them stat."

Troy raises an eyebrow, but says, "Check."

"The hell's that mean, Boxy?" Jeff asks, brow furrowed.

"Parson's got a violent streak," Box says matter-of-factly, and Anatoly slows his pace. "I've only seen him shove his hands in his pockets or forget to hide his accent off-ice after he's so pissed he's already talking the really vicious shit."

Jeff purses his mouth as his pace drops more on the bike.

"Check," Troy says again. "Gonna be honest, Boxy, that just makes me more worried."

Box shakes his head. "They're fine. Parse told me once Chazzer gets his head stuck on the ice longer than other guys, so he doesn't pay attention to it."

"...Explicate that one for me," Troy says dryly.

Box snorts, and then straightens up into a normal sitting position. "All right, so nobody's the same off the ice as they are on it, 'cause we'd all be serial killers if we were, eh?"

Jeff sniggers. Troy snorts and says, "Yeah."

"Parse said Chazzer gets stuck in that mindset longer than other guys," Box says. "So there's no reason to pay attention to what he says when he's like that, 'cause Chazzer just takes longer to mentally get off the ice."

"How'd this come up?" Anatoly asks.

"When I almost clocked Prochazka in the jaw for his shit after a loss," Box says flatly. "Parse hauled me outta there and said not to listen when he gets like that."

"-- _Ahhh_ , yeah, alright," Jeff says, sounding like he's recalling what Box is talking about. When Anatoly gives him a quizzical look, Jeff adds, "You were out that game. With the sprain."

"Ah," he replies. "Okay."

It's still weird for Parser to talk about his mental processes like that. But it's less weird if he was doing it to talk down one of the other boys.

Anatoly runs his fingers through his hair. "Alright, that makes more sense."

Box shakes his head. "Parson'll tell you anything if you ask," he says, which is such a goddamn lie Anatoly's about to call him on it when Box continues, "as long as he's known you long enough and you ask right."

Anatoly raises a judgmental eyebrow. "What's 'asking right,' then?"

"Don't try to fit anything he says into his media persona. He's gonna know if you're judging him for his shit," Box shrugs. "I already know who he really is, so it's easy."

"Who is he 'really,'" Anatoly asks.

"Satan in skates."

Anatoly stifles a startled laugh and brakes on the bike. Over by the weight machine he was calibrating, Smith cracks up.

"Fucking tell me otherwise this season," the Aces' goalie says flatly. "You know what I hear when they talk 'Third longest point streak in history, longest streak of the new era'? _**Satan**_."

"Gonna strain something there, mate," Troy comments to Smith, who's half-collapsed over the weight machine laughing.

"I fuckin' love you Boxy, never change!" Smith manages between cackles. "Fuckin' **best**."

"Yup," Box replies, going back to stretching.

Troy shakes his head, but folds his arms and leans against Jeff's bike monitor again. "Okay. Thanks."

"Sure," Box tells him. "It's fine, Troy. They're dicks, but so far this's pretty normal."

"All right," Troy says. "Good to know I don't gotta worry about them killing each other."

"Oh no pal, that's definitely going to happen," Box smirks. "But you've got at least to the end of playoffs first."

"Thanks," Troy drawls. Jeff's snickering again.

Anatoly shakes his head and puts his earbud back in.  
  
  
Box finds him at the sinks later, when Anatoly's shaving after his shower. "Is there a problem between us, Vichy?"

Anatoly exhales as he finishes up under his chin; but he's not surprised.

"No," he replies. "There ain't, Boxy. We're good."

"All right," Box says.

Anatoly starts rinsing off his razor, and Box leaves.  
  
  
Anatoly checks in on Chazzer later that afternoon. They don't hang out much away from the club, but Anatoly still likes the man.

And he knows what it's like to be lineys with Parser.

Chazzer seems to be fine, as much as ever, but Anatoly brings the issue up to Parser anyway. Better if Chazzer and Parser deal with their shit at the outset, instead of it letting it stay bottled up for too long. Anatoly knows how to learn from mistakes.  
  
  
Anatoly and Parser eventually work things out, mostly.

They put things back to normal between themselves in the locker room because they have to work together, so they have to get along.

It's not that hard, at least not on Anatoly's side. Parser's a difficult guy to dislike.

The problem with Kent Parson is that from his first day in the Aces organization, he showed himself to be the kind of athlete Anatoly Ivanovich Klimentov respected: focused, driven, hard-working. The first man on the ice at practice; the one already in the workout room when other guys started arriving at the clubhouse for breakfast; the skill player who took hard hits when he was being targeted and then got back up and scored a vindictive goal.

Parser was a guy who liked fun, sure--a man who liked people and being liked by them and the dopamine rush of parties and fan events and being the center of attention. But he was also an athlete who wanted to hold an elite position in the highest level of competition in their sport, and who worked every single day at it.

The problem with Kent Parson was that from day one Anatoly had to respect him, even when he didn't like him.

And then he made the damn fool mistake of liking him, and becoming friends, and still respecting him even as he slowly learned that Parser had some serious problems that he needed to goddamn deal with before they wrecked him. And that was pretty much the end of Anatoly's sanity right there.

The problem with Jack Zimmermann is that--if Anatoly puts aside his personal bias and is honest to himself--Zimmermann appears to be the kind of athlete Anatoly respects, too.

Zimmermann made some shitty life choices, almost drinking and doping away not just the kind of talent that makes the hockey gods feel like a real thing but also his goddamn _life_.

And then he got up and came back.

Zimmermann almost died; and then he went through physical therapy and detox, and got back into playing condition.

He lost his chance in the draft; and then he moved to another country to go the college route, and got back into the sport.

He threw away everything; and then he dealt with his shit and started over, and worked his way back from it. 

Because Zimmermann wanted to be in the highest level of competition just as bad as the rest of them, and he was ready to grind through four years of college and a level of scrutiny and criticism that's a thousand times harsher than anything Anatoly's ever received on his worst days in order to make it there.

Anatoly doesn't have sympathy for guys who piss away the kinds of chances he was never handed.

But if a man makes shit choices, and then owns that he did that and works his ass off to come back from them because he really does want to be here, then. That's different.

Anatoly grew up playing hockey with and against kids who were better than him. He played with children who had more innate skill, more hockey sense, more speed, more wind and stamina and softer hands than him.

Anatoly kept on playing hockey and watched those same kids disappear from his teams, for any number of reasons: they fell out of interest in the game, they lost scholarships and couldn't afford to stay, they chose to focus on a different sport. They let the constant competition grind them down.

Anatoly advanced through the youth leagues with kids worse than him. He played with and against preteens and teenagers who had high turnover rates, who misread passes, who turned in half-finished homework in order to have more time to practice, who loved the game but knew collegiate hockey would--at best--be their last stop before rec leagues. Who never got much ice time but showed up at every practice and game anyway.

Anatoly grew up playing hockey and learned that resilience would always go farther than talent.

That a player who pulled himself through pressure and stress and self-doubt would always go farther than one who caved under it. 

Anatoly stuck it out through rejection from development programs, and playing in under-populated arenas, and trying to maintain a tight budget, and overall uncertainty about the future. He held on when doubt made him feel like he was wasting his time, because he knew that as long as he stayed determined and kept playing and didn't give up, he'd always go farther than guys who were better than him but didn't want it as bad.

As long as he made himself be resilient, he'd keep taking ice time from more skilled guys who couldn't hack the pressure. An average player who worked his ass off would always play more minutes, get more chances, and earn more trust than a talented player who couldn't make himself come back from a mental hit.

But then there are guys like Kent Parson and Jack Zimmermann, who have just as much determination-- _and_ the innate talent to apply it to.

Those are the kind of guys an average player doesn't have a chance against, no matter how hard he works.  
  
  
The team keeps on doing well. They dodge the worst of the injury curse. They have a five game win streak over the end of March and the start of April that boosts all the boys' spirits as they dive into the tail end of the regular season.

They take home the Pacific division championship for the second time, proving 2013 wasn't a fluke.

They take home the Western conference championship for the first time in team history, proving that despite a bumpy season last year the Las Vegas Aces are on the rise and anybody who claims otherwise can _eat it_.

They advance through the playoff quarterfinals, and then the semifinals, and then the conference finals.

And then for the first time in four years, the Las Vegas Aces advance to the Stanley Cup finals to face off against Tampa Bay.

But that comes later.

Anatoly's getting ahead of the story again. And anyway, it's not his story.

It's the story of Kent "first American-born player to reach [insert record of your choice here]" Parson and Jack Zimmermann.

Jack Zimmermann, the man who's made Kent Parson's laundry list of accomplishments--Las Vegas Aces' captain at nineteen, 2010 Calder Trophy winner, repeat All-Star Games' pick, a league leader in points and assists, a bonafide hockey superstar, a _Stanley Cup champion_ \--feel like they're incomplete until Zimmermann's back on his team.

Jack Zimmermann, the man who's kept Kent Parson stuck in time for more than twice the amount of years they actually knew each other.

Jack fucking Zimmermann.

The linemate Anatoly will never live up to.  
  
  
  


There is always someone willing to take what's yours,  
especially if you have more than they can possibly hold.


End file.
